


the less I know, the better

by eiua



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Difference, Age Reversal, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Ballet Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Bottom Victor Nikiforov, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Olympics, Multi, Mutual Pining, No Homophobia, Oral Sex, Sexual Tension, Skater Victor Nikiforov, Slow Burn, Smut, St. Petersburg (Russia), Top Katsuki Yuuri, Viktor sleeps with a few other people before he gets to Yuuri, White Nights, Young Victor Nikiforov, compromising photos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 77,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26680243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiua/pseuds/eiua
Summary: Twenty-year-old Viktor Nikiforov is stuck in St. Petersburg for the offseason from a knee injury involving Chris and a bathtub after winning Euros. He gets reacquainted with the meaning of free time and fights off his yearning for romance.Then a new instructor arrives at the Vaganova. Despite his best attempts to blend into the wallpaper, Viktor and everyone else try to get to know him.
Relationships: Christophe Giacometti & Victor Nikiforov, Christophe Giacometti/Victor Nikiforov, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Mila Babicheva & Victor Nikiforov, Victor Nikiforov/Georgi Popovich, Viktor Nikiforov/Others
Comments: 110
Kudos: 143





	1. utter young adult stupidity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SongsUnderStars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongsUnderStars/gifts), [glitterpile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterpile/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Don't Even Need to Buy a New Dress](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25497031) by [Allekha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allekha/pseuds/Allekha). 



> The idea for this fic started out as a desire to see the specific kind of content that I wanted to read more of in the world. In other words: this fic was supposed to just be porn without plot of a younger, long-haired flirty Viktor Nikiforov who was still a figure skater and a Yuuri Katsuki who you know could lift him over his shoulder and press him against a wall because he has the upper body strength of a male ballet dancer. 
> 
> Then they insisted on being friends first and lovers later, and of course I had to be there for that. 
> 
> I started writing this fic in April. Five months later, here we are. I'm still writing the second half, but there's already fair bit of ground to tread. 
> 
> I'd like to thank Nikki, my amazing and patient beta who juggles my incoherent rambles about how to make plot and porn meet and kiss – with law school. And Alisa who has pointed out important cultural points and language points. You are both amazing for helping me out of your own free time.
> 
> There's a fair bit of artistic license taken with respect to timelines, figure skating technicals, ballet technicals, ballet companies, and the geography of St. Petersburg (Piter as called by the locals). I've done a fair bit of research, but do let me know in the comments if I missed anything out.

**Sport, Sport, Sport: Tigers, Emin Khachaturian**

His parents loved him, or what little they knew of him. His fans loved him. Makkachin loved him. Yakov and Lilia, for all their gripes about his inability to sit still and do exactly as they said, carried some affection for him. 

That should have been enough for Viktor, but it wasn’t. 

These days, it was hard to say when the loneliness stopped and started. He wasn’t even sure if it was right to call it that. 

He wasn’t quite the champion he wanted to be yet; he’d been doing okay before but the Olympics had pushed him into the spotlight and had given him enough money to finally buy his apartment. Then, of course, he’d proceeded to shoot that all into the dust, disappearing from the rest of last season after a knee injury involving a bathtub and Chris in Italy after Euros.

“Stupidity, utter young adult stupidity!” Yakov had yelled at him straight for two hours. If he thought back hard enough he could still recall the ringing in his ears from the sermon.

The doctor had declared it a meniscal tear and a sprained ankle, enough of a hindrance that he couldn’t skate for almost three months. His mother had called, then his father, concerned. But despite the yawning ache of free time that opened up with his injury, he did not want them coming to Piter, not when things would be awkward with him stuck in his apartment all day. 

Viktor could manage; he’d been managing since he’d moved into Yakov and Lilia’s apartment at 11, then into his own place at 18. 

He had lived as a child near the Gulf of Finland, in a middling town whose young people moved away to live in Piter. Viktor had grown up smelling the sea, hearing the gulls cry in the air, smelling the iron tang of dead fish, fresh fish, mussels and squid, and herring and cod. He had his sea legs and knew the best ways to get rid of the fish smell in the kitchen, but no one cared about that in Piter.

All they cared about was… _When are you coming back to competition? How is your knee? Are you now on the ice daily? Can you do this interview at 3 pm in this studio on Kamennyy Island? Can you open the shirt a bit more, let your hand lay on the pillow like that, a little wider, yes, perfect!_

Now, he was clawing his way back up to the top. That involved on-ice training, off-ice conditioning, hours and hours of physical therapy, and ballet—so much ballet! So much so that Viktor could not help but think in terms of dance vocabulary at the end of his workweek. 

It was all very exhausting, and normally he would have been happy to do it, honing himself towards that trembling vein of art and sport. But these days, it strangely bled him dry—nothing left but scraps for Makkachin to love when he went home to his apartment, alone. 

There was a bright, burning exception, almost like a lodestar: the new instructor, Japanese, the late 20s or early 30s, freshly moved to the Vaganova. He fascinated Viktor, for all that he was very shy and almost plain, but technically proficient and moved with a body that became the music. 

In their first class, Viktor had barely noticed him—an Asian man who stood in the corner, doing his stretches while also trying to become one with the wallpaper. Then Lilia had called them all to attention and introduced him. Viktor, momentarily distracted by a loose thread on his shirt, had missed his name and had only come to with the whispers that passed through the other students.

“He looks so plain, and his clothes are terribly baggy,” a few of the students had sighed. This had all been in Russian so that he could not understand their blunt commentary. “How can he be the new teacher?” 

But Viktor noticed how he bristled, the slightest hint of affronted, and how a small, sly expression crept onto his face. It disappeared as quickly as it came. 

Then he proceeded to do a demonstration—huge leaps into the air and jumps with such height that seemed impossible, a commanding presence as he displayed precise forms and transitions, extensions and spins on a wooden floor that took the breath out of Viktor, almost floating. 

The students had collectively gasped. Viktor included—this was from someone who balanced on point-five centimetre blades and landed death-defying jumps on them and called it his job.

They moved to _jetes, allonges, pas de bourrees, changement de pieds_. On occasion, the beautiful instructor—for yes, he was beautiful, if one paid enough attention—would come over to adjust him. His fingers were deft and light on his shins, the side of his thigh, his shoulder. 

Viktor’s heart fluttered the tiniest bit whenever he came close. 

“Nikiforov, arms a little higher please,” the new instructor would say. He’d follow and adjust their height, the burn in his shoulders bearable. Idly, he wondered what it would be like. If he stretched his leg into a perfect standing split while cupping him where he wanted. If those fingers pressed a tad more, if they left their marks on his skin like the kind Danyl would when they were still together—the marks of attraction, possession, captivation. 

Viktor sighed. He was getting ahead of himself, a helpless physical attraction to a foreign man who sometimes jumped in skittish surprise when they called out to him after class. But thinking about him, wondering about what ran through his head when he looked Viktor in the eye and then looked away—all the basic signs of a crush. It helped chase away a bit of the loneliness, distract Viktor from the tiring, mundane grind of recovery that not even dreaming of new programs could help.

The new instructor was fresh inspiration. Perhaps, exactly what Viktor needed.

He learned his name a few weeks later, heard Lilia pass it to Yakov over their weekly dinner—Katsuki. Katsuki Yuuri, previously of the Royal Ballet in London, taking over Katerina’s classes while she pushed a baby out. 

“How she could think to have another hellion at 40, escapes me,” Lilia huffed, stabbing at her steak with her knife. 

Yakov grunted. Children were a sore topic, but it was masked by the fact that their students were a handful enough proxy for children of their own. God knew Viktor, Georgi, Mila, Yuri were enough to account for Yakov’s hair loss. Perhaps God _did_ —Yakov still attended the synagogue every Saturday, and Vitya pretended to be religious for his programs. While sucking off his lover of the moment in a hotel room or his apartment.

He rolled it over in his mouth. _Katsuki._ _Yuuri._

That evening in his apartment, laptop balanced on his lap while he lazed on the couch in his sweats, a quick search with Yandex brought up results. A first soloist-almost-principal at the Royal Ballet, plum roles in La Bayadere, Swan Lake, The Prince of the Pagodas. Swan Lake the Matthew Bourne version! With the strange costumes that made Viktor wonder if their designer had been personally offended by swans. 

He clicked through Youtube, watching fancams of recorded performances from shit balcony seats that still somehow captured the way Katsuki’s body moved, like he was the source of the music rather than the orchestra. Just as Makka decided she wanted to take a nap on top of Viktor, he struck a gold mine—footage from last year’s World Ballet Day, with Katsuki as the prince to Stix-Brunell’s Raven Girl. 

The strength was visible in his arms as he spun and lifted her through many dazzling positions in the cold austerity of a dance studio. So was the sweat, which glistened on his muscles. The purple leg warmers were a cute touch, but the form-fitting clothes required of rehearsals—Viktor felt his mouth dry up. 

He’d seen those arms and legs in action in the studio at Vaganova just this afternoon, peeking into the class before theirs. Katsuki had been walking the sixth years through their paces with the _pas de deux_. The girl he’d hefted in his arms had been visibly blushing and had tried to discreetly squeal to her friends afterwards. Katsuki oblivious to her glee. 

His fingers stilled on the trackpad. He blew a strand of hair out of his face, not quite resigned. And then he had to stop and take a breath, let Makkachin lay her full weight on him as he sighed and cursed himself because he knew what was happening to him. 

The closeness, the warmth, the inevitable intimacy of being lifted like that, loped over the shoulder and supported with the hands of a man playing one’s true love … Viktor wanted it. Even when he’d just about sworn off relationships! There were medals to win!

Yet his mind knowingly went _ugh. Not again._

Over dinner after the next lesson, after Katsuki had run them ragged with a sequence from La Bayadere, he let himself admit it in stops and starts, the beginnings of another helpless attraction. 

There was not much he could do about it, because in the off season, they would meet thrice a week. On the first session without the ballet students, he had arrived late in that flippant way of his after an interview with GoldenSkate in the Press Management office, entering the room with a fresh cup of iced coffee in his hand and his duffel slung over his shoulder carelessly. Fashionably tardy, as he had been in the last season sometimes with Katerina, who didn’t mind his antics and mothered him some. He had made his way with relaxed, loping steps to place his bag near the cubby holes as the others continued their stretches—until Lilia had turned her gaze on him, unimpressed. 

As if on command, Katsuki had glared at him too, like some sort of prized guard dog. But a very pretty guard dog, the kind Viktor wanted to bring home. 

Come the second week—he’d been late again. This time, Lilia had not minced words. “There’s no room for layabouts in my classes,” Lilia had tutted. “Do you want to medal this year or not? The choice is yours, Vitya. Yura, don’t scowl like that.” The last bit was directed at young Plisetsky, who scowled even harder, if that were possible. 

Viktor had laughed; it was still funny the nth time around. Perhaps Lilia had finally met her match in how far the corners of one’s mouth could turn.

But that disappeared eventually, moving into badly hidden awe from their small group of skaters, as the lessons moved into more challenging territory. Perhaps it could even be said that the sheer grace and subtlety of Katsuki’s movements, how they cut the air like a knife through hot butter when necessary, awed them into good behavior. 

He danced like a puppet on a string, Lilia’s hands moving him, with a perfect elongation of the legs and neck. 

Viktor had rarely, in his life, ever known such raw, anxious beauty—except for that man in that club in Tokyo, just last year, who he might have done things with. If only he hadn’t disappeared and Hiroshi the ISU technical specialist had come to take his place with his beautiful suit and wandering hands. Except for Katsuki, who would soon take over without Lilia to supervise starting next week. 

“Viktor, are you listening at all?” Lilia asked. She remained unimpressed with his inability to wander off into daydreams at the drop of a hat. Beside her, Katsuki peered at him through inky eyelashes, his expression neutral. “I expect you all to be on your best behaviour, even when it’s only Yuuri.”

“Yes, madame, loud and clear. We’ll all be good little skaters and won’t give him any trouble!” He winked. Behind Lilia, Katsuki furrowed his brow and looked at the ground. 

It was tempting to put a little more effort into his appearance these days. He knew he was striking, on some days and some angles even attractive, handsome, _pretty_ , even after a morning on the ice, or early afternoons in the gym. Maybe even especially then, when his muscles looked pumped and the glow of endorphins shone through his skin. In any case, it didn’t hurt to apply a little gloss, a little mascara to highlight his features.

Another day, another lesson—this time without any Lilia to keep them from getting rowdy. But that wasn’t necessary, not when they’d been sufficiently impressed into obedience by Katsuki. 

He had this way of moving into Viktor’s space soundlessly, adjusting the angle of his head, the height of his arm. “A little more to the left, please,” he murmured, almost breathing onto Viktor’s cheek to adjust his shoulder. 

Viktor followed. He would have liked to talk to him a bit more. He would have liked to peer at him through his lashes, his gaze heavy, and say something flirtatious, but—

Katsuki didn’t seem to notice Viktor’s efforts. He’d caught Mila latching onto Katsuki’s arm the other day, but all the other man had done was stammer and push away her attention with an elegant arm. He didn’t seem to notice anyone’s efforts, the soft batting of eyes of the other men and women in the class before Viktor’s. Almost as if he was single-mindedly focused on the business of teaching dancers and overdramatic skaters how to move like dancers. 

Paradoxically, it only increased his allure. 

There were many beautiful, attractive young people at the Vaganova. Katsuki had his pick of potential flings and romances. He shunned them all! It made Viktor more curious to know more about him, to see if he could bend in other ways.

But Viktor was also self-aware enough, even when everyone else seemed to think otherwise, that this attraction would come and pass. He’d tell Makka as much.

“Of course I want Katsuki to notice me. I love attention,” he said to her, as he carded a hand through her fur after dinner. “It’s not really a crush, it’s nothing serious, it’s just me wanting a beautiful person to notice me. Nothing different from Danyl. Or Fabien the ice dancer. Or other sponsors.

“Or,” he singsonged to her, “Hiroshi. Who at least responds to my texts!”

The lesson today had been especially trying. Katsuki had begun to grow accustomed to the overheated studios of the Vaganova. He had also, to the delight and panic of several students, begun to shed the baggy clothes for the more familiar attire of the danseur—the form-fitting leggings, the leg warmers, the muscle shirts that showed off his lean physique.

“But he’s clearly not biting, so why am I wasting my time, Makka?” She looked at him with her big eyes, boofing his hand for a pet before deciding it was much better to lick his face. “Hey, hey!” He laughed, as chatter came in through the window, open to the late spring evening. “At least you love me, Makka. I don’t need to fight anyone for your attention.” 

This was enough, he thought to himself, as they went on their walk through the city on his day off. He had his skating, Yakov and Lilia, Mila’s humorous remarks, Chris during competitions, Georgi when he wasn’t off mooning over some other girl, Yura to tease, his fans, his books, the latest release by Natalia Gorbacheva—he didn’t need a fling. 

It wasn’t as if he had so much time for romance either! 

The off-season meant ice shows – though much less and limited to Piter because of his knee, and he could attempt no jumps – modeling for Gosha Rubchinskiy and Vetements and a few students from the Royal Academy down the street from the rink, interviews with Out!Loud and Match1 and maintaining his social media. Recovery meant he could not travel as much, but he made do with day trips to Gatchina and Komarovo with Makkachin in his car. On the shores of Lake Shchuchye, he’d find fallen spruce branches to throw for her to fetch and taking pictures by the pretty dachas that netted at least 5000 likes on VKontakte and much more on his Instagram. 

But even then … as he walked Makka in the cold of the spring evenings, he let his thoughts wander to the idea of it. Someone to hold hands with, kiss on the sidewalk corner as they waited for the light to turn green. Someone to talk to about his books, his ideas, music, art. 

Just last night he had reread Pushkin’s famous poem, the one addressed to the memoirist Anna Petrova Kern, and sighed at all its lovely lines and words. But he’d only had Makkachin to discuss it with, and while she loved him without complaint or measure, she made for a poor conversationalist.

Chris could fill that ache, sometimes. But Chris was never here when the itch and scratch of wanting a warm body got too much. 

Then there was also Nikolai the hockey player from SKA a few weeks back. It had been a terrible decision, even if his dick had been … massive. And his overtures at continuing things were so unromantic that Viktor had no choice but to ghost him.

“Honestly, Makka, I barely have time to date these days,” he told her, as she sniffed around the bushes on an ordinary summer evening. A passing trio of women with cute backpacks walked past, doing a double take as if recognizing him. “So. Why do I keep making an effort? Why does my brain insist?”

But there was no time to think about that. The trio came closer, and asked for a selfie and some autographs bashfully—for all of a sudden he was Viktor Nikiforov, the very nice Olympic medallist of men’s figure skating, again.

* * *

**Second Thoughts, T.B. Arthur / Teleport, Ivan Dorn / I Feel Love, Donna Summer**

Georgi, for all his bad luck with love, was the surprising catalyst. As were Mila, Yuri, and Marya and Ivan—the last two terribly named for all that they were an ice dancing pair. Perhaps it was part of their whole mystique. And perhaps a night out was what Viktor needed, as he struggled to come up with new programs while the next season inched closer and closer. 

He might as well skate to warhorses like Holst’s Planets this season! But that was so boring.

Georgi called them out to Metropol on their next Saturday off in their group chat. His most recent love—Daria, a makeup artist—was to be celebrated, the cementing of their exclusivity toasted in a noisy club with beautiful clothes and beautiful people. 

Viktor was invited by proxy. He and Georgi had grown up together in the last few years, and they celebrated their birthdays together sometimes during the Christmas-New Year rush when it had still been possible to sneak in cake and not look like it the next day. And then there had been that summer when he’d dressed up as a girl and pretended to be his girlfriend … needless to say, they had something of a friendship. Close, but not close enough to beg off without looking like a dick. Close enough that he knew the sight, smell, and taste of the other man’s cock—maybe when Georgi wasn’t too wrapped up in their supposed rivalry. 

He felt shameless enough that it was alright to consult with him as they left the rink on Saturday.

“I don’t know how to do my make-up for tonight. Any ideas?” For all his obsession with strange, almost terrifying levels of eyeshadow, Georgi had a surprisingly adept hand at make-up for others. That was how he and Daria had met, on a forum. 

“Hm. Are you coming to just dance or to … I don’t know, bring someone home?” Georgi raised an eyebrow. Viktor looked at him askance. That was a surprisingly hard question to answer. Perhaps he should just play it safe. Perhaps he should not play it safe at all.

“Fuck, of course,” he replied nonchalantly.

Georgi nodded, resolute. “Okay then, here’s what I suggest…” 

The club was loud, noisy, pulsing with heavy bass beats that he could feel in his bones. The bouncer had recognized them at the door and waved them in with a lazy hand. Free drinks at the bar, three shots each. No grumpy Plisetsky to grumble and groan like a sullen teenager, just a night out with people he called ‘friends’, celebrating the joy of another human being—Georgi’s new love. 

Love. Love! The promise of love on the dance floor, for one night. Or was it pleasure? Something like that, whatever the song lyrics said.

Viktor lost himself in the music, hands, and arms and skin pressing up against him. He sweated out his anxieties about love and its frivolities, the fears of his body betraying him—it didn’t betray him here, where people wanted him, a hot commodity that everyone wanted dancing, grinding next to them, behind them, in front of them. He vaguely felt his ass push up against another man’s crotch, a strong arm clutching his waist, with a firm grip right underneath his pectoral that brushed his nipple through the thin silk of his blouse—

An exhale near his ear sent goosebumps up the nape of his neck. “I really like your dancing!” said the voice. Somehow, he could hear him despite the loud music and noisy chatter of the club.

“Really!” he yelled back, tipping his head to the side to expose his neck. “Is that all you liked?” and he ground his ass back into the stranger’s crotch. A laugh answered him, the strong arm flipping him around to face this very forward stranger. 

The stranger’s eyes glinted amidst the dark ambiance and the smoke. Viktor could make out dark hair, slicked back and sparkling in the flashing lights, a dress shirt open to the third button … and, by the looks of it, wonderful forearms and a deliciously muscled chest accentuated by sweat. 

Foreign-looking, a face that would be innocent if they met on a street corner, but with striking eyes and an intense gaze in the dark of the club. Sleek and dangerous, the way he looked at Viktor like he was something he wanted to devour, piece by delicate piece. 

Maybe it was the alcohol and Viktor’s libido, but he was attractive. Almost familiar.

But whatever. Viktor didn’t care. Viktor didn’t care!

He danced with the recklessness and abandon of a twenty-year-old with nothing to lose, the world at his feet or, at least, around him in the undulating motion of people lost in the music. Very Forward Stranger kept dancing with him, coming closer and then moving away in turns. It was fun, the call and response, the teasing grazes of arms and chests and lower halves set in time to the beat of the music, until Viktor couldn’t take the dryness in his throat anymore and had to beg off for a drink. He promised to return to him and then moved towards the bar, noting the spot where he’d left him. 

There, he found Mila, nursing her rum cola.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” he asked, as he waited for the bartender to return. He set the flyaways back into his ponytail, checked his makeup on his phone – he still looked good if somewhat mussed up. But it was a sexy sort of messed up, the kind that was enough to find someone for the night to bring home. Perhaps Sexy Foreign Stranger.

“Just taking a little break! Georgi and Daria left already, seems like they couldn’t wait,” she snorted. It was barely audible from the chatter at the bar. 

“And Ivan and Marya?”

“Dunno. Somewhere, I guess. We’re all adults here.”

Over in the distance, the crowd started to part. The gogo dancers were retiring for the night, leaving the cages and the free poles up for others to use. A man clambered onto the stage in the center of the club—the pole with the best vantage point and spotlight, up for everyone to see. 

Normally, seeing someone approach a pole like that meant that someone was either about to embarrass themselves or strip like their rent was due. Viktor had seen his fair share of people grinding drunkenly onto a metal stick. He didn’t need to watch this to know how this would end. 

So Viktor looked away, chatting with Mila about her prospects versus his own for the night. 

“I met a really good-looking foreigner!” he yelled into her ear. “He was a good dancer too!”

“Lucky you,” she yelled back, raising her drink in a toast. “Let’s hope that translates horizontally!”

The music changed, melting from the fast-paced beat of the previous song into a sparse tick-tocking with a voice that said _I feel love._

But did he? Maybe. He turned to face the undulating crowd, trying to find where Sexy Foreign Stranger had gone. And then the crowd went wild, yelling and whooping that rose in volume. Their collective clamor almost overpowered the sound system. 

Curious, Viktor and Mila turned their heads towards the stage. The man from before was still there, except—except now he was stripping with a theatrical slowness that followed the beat of the music, removing his shirt first. Now he was dancing like a man possessed by the muses. He clearly knew what he was doing. 

The shine of the lights made the flex of muscles obvious on his upper body. He lifted himself into a series of impossible, absolutely impossible poses, that shouldn’t work at all because gravity existed and—

 _Oh my god,_ he took his pants off. What a look.

Viktor left Mila to brave through the crowd, making his way past gawkers and spectators and people still dancing, ignorant of the major miracle happening on the stage, a man who actually knew how to work the pole. Upon reaching the edge of it, Viktor’s jaw dropped to the floor. 

There was Sexy Foreign Stranger. Except he wasn’t a stranger, because he knew that body, he knew those arms and legs. He knew that face and the adorable cheek fat streaked with glitter, now made clear by the spotlight. 

Katsuki!

He held his breath, caught in the spell that Katsuki wove with his loping grace around the pole. A perfect split in midair, his hip, and armpit the only thing keeping him on the pole. A waterfall of moves landed him on his tiptoes. Then he lifted up again, a series of dynamic moves that made it seem like he was moving through water. 

It looked so impossible! And what was even better, he wore a dance belt, which meant that certain moves _really_ emphasised his pert cheeks. 

Viktor sucked in air, a fish out of water. He noticed he wasn’t the only one, a gaggle of men and women, and everything in between surrounding the stage.

All too soon, it ended. The crowd went wild, cheering, overwhelming the sound system once again. The DJ lifted her hands up to gesture to Katsuki and cheers and whoops traveled through the crowd into a wave of sound that crashed onto the stage. Katsuki took an exaggerated bow, thanking his audience. As the song changed, he busied himself trying to put his shirt and pants back on. 

He was surprisingly uncoordinated when he wasn’t dancing—putting his feet into his shoes made him almost stumble off the stage. 

Viktor had positioned himself right where he fell, hoping to be the first to talk to him. As it happened, he was right in front of him when Katsuki fell. He caught him, and they almost landed on their backs if not for a push from a nearby group that set them upright. Katsuki’s not too heavy, but the muscles made up most of his weight, it seemed. 

Their faces came very close, the alcohol breath obvious on Katsuki’s mouth. Viktor wondered if it’s obvious in his own breath too. The flashing lights of the club rendered him cute, adorable, even kittenish, with his wide doe eyes.

“Hello again!” he yelled, loping his arms around Viktor’s neck, fingers threading into the end of his ponytail. “Like what you saw?”

“Hello!” yelled Viktor back. “You were fantastic up there! Amazing! Where did you learn to dance like that?”

“Secret! I’ll tell you if you dance with me. Let’s dance some more.” His breath came close to Viktor’s ear, his tongue darting out to almost lick the shell of it, a moist point against his skin. Viktor tripped, surprised by the sensation. They almost fell again. 

Getting up was difficult until Katsuki realized he had two feet that worked. Then it got a little easier, although he was still a handful – they’re close enough to the DJ that Katsuki could yell at her to change the song “to something we can grind to” and hand her some cash. The woman behind the stand gave them a nod back, did her magic with the turntables. 

The song blended into the next one and Viktor couldn’t help but fall into step with Katsuki. Often, as a younger skater, he’d peek into the studios as the first soloists and principals rehearsed—Yakov’s skaters always got the awkward times before the classrooms were flooded with dancers, the only time Lilia could fit them in. It was much like that, dancing with the Japanese man, the all-encompassing knowledge of a beautiful body creating movements ephemeral, sensuous, and alive, even in the dark lights and pounding beats of Metropol, even sauced and after the most amazing gravity-defying dance that Viktor’s ever seen.

It burned through him from head to toe. His hand found Katsuki’s shoulder and pulled him closer. Their lower halves bumped against one another until Viktor fully pressed himself against Katsuki and the other man leaned in, lifting a hand to caress Viktor’s cheek. 

The lights kept flashing. Viktor’s eyes closed. Their mouths met. 

His lips were fruity, like ten different cocktails all mixed into a sugary sweet concoction that blended with his own unique taste. The bass beat kept on, surrounding them and pulsing through the crowd. The initial touch shocked him into awareness, then Katsuki’s tongue darted out to lick along the seam of his lips, searching for the answer to a question Viktor didn't even know he'd asked. 

Viktor opened his mouth, the breath coming fast through his nostrils. Another hand found his bottom and squeezed, Katsuki’s hips still moving in time to the music. But Viktor had already lost the beat, distracted by the heat, the sensation, the firm press of muscles against his body. He pressed back into that hand, seeking the warmth of it.

They parted, trying to catch their individual breaths. Viktor couldn’t help but laugh, and Katsuki smiled back, a little feral. Did that just happen? Did that just _really_ happen! He lifted a hand to his lips, wondering at the sting where Katsuki had bitten before pulling back.

“Wow,” he whispered. 

Katsuki laughed, the sound making Viktor shiver even amidst the heat of writing bodies. “That good?”

He nodded, dumbstruck. Here was the man he’d take home. He’d sleep with Katsuki and work off his little attraction—such an easy solution to move on from it! The perfect plan.

It was a pity then, that he ended up losing him. 

Mila found him through the crowd, a hand on his shoulder to pull her to dance with him, finally done with being on her lonesome and harassed by men at the bar. He turned to welcome her into their little bubble. The lights made her hair glow, a fiery pouf around her head. 

The hand on his ass let up. “Stay put, my friend’s joining us!” called out Viktor, as he shifted his whole torso until he was no longer pressed up against Katsuki.

He welcomed Mila with a one-armed hug and told her, “Took you long enough! Look who I found—” 

But by the time he turned around to find Katsuki and introduce the two of them, and gush to Mila all about Katsuki’s amazing stamina and that amazing kiss—

 _Poof!_ He was gone. 

Viktor couldn’t find him no matter how hard he looked. Had he gone to the bar to grab a drink? Wandered off to the toilets to pee or puke? He had seemed so nice, so sure on his feet, and the kiss had been very lovely. Surely he was still somewhere around here?

He scoured the dancefloor twice, eventually leaving Mila with a tall drink of water who, while well-dressed, didn’t seem to know how to dance. Not that Mila cared about that much. But Viktor had his eyes set on a target, knew what he wanted, and now all he needed to do was to find him and convince him that Viktor’s bed was a much better place to continue things than a crowded dance floor.

In the corner, he finally saw shoulders and dark hair he recognised, and was about to elbow his way through (but elegantly) until he realised that—that Katsuki was kissing another man, blonde-haired and tall, like he had all the time in the world, with soft, cloying presses of lips, slips of a pink tongue, and hands that squeezed and caressed. 

Viktor burned, an unnamed feeling taking root. 

_So that’s how it was. Men were all the same._

Not that he had any room to talk.

So he improvised. He knew there was a man that had been eyeing him all night, dancing just a few paces away, dark-haired and sturdily built, a little too muscled-up, but he had such pretty brown eyes when they got close and personal on the dance floor. 

He’d do. 

Viktor made his move from a few steps away, twirling a lock of hair around his finger, holding eye-contact, parting his lips slowly as if sighing. He ran his hands down his chest and emphasized his ass. It was far too easy to pull someone into his whirlpool of self-indulgence. 

And when he had him, hook, line and sinker, Viktor texted Mila, who had disappeared for water: _Milochka, I’ll be going ahead. Found someone to play with. See you Monday!_

And to Georgi: _You two should have stayed, someone danced on the pole and it was AMAZING. Thanks for inviting me, hope you and Daria are having fun celebrating your love <3 _

He and the dark-haired stranger crashed into his couch, kissing and groping one another into sweet oblivion. It didn’t take long to get each other into bed, clothes slipping off like crumbs leading to a den of iniquity. He shed the blouse last, casting heavy, heated glances at his bed partner for the night and unwrapping himself like a gift. 

He was devoured in seconds.

Viktor usually found blowjobs fun, with how he could make someone moan and shudder just from how he moved his tongue and sucked in his cheeks. It was no different this time, even as he imagined someone else in this stranger’s place. Inevitably, his hair was pulled at, which was nice the first few times and scratched an itch to just be used and not have to think, to be someone’s little slut, but it began to hurt after the fourth time around. He tapped at the stranger’s thigh to let up on the pressure.

“Sorry,” said the other man sheepishly, as he peered up at him. “You’re just so pretty.” Viktor gave out a muffled whine as if to say, _yes, I know, but that hurt too much and I don’t like it!_ The cock was heavy in his mouth, almost touching the back of his throat. A sudden thrust made the tears well up and his eyes burn.

But he wanted this, didn’t he? Besides, it didn’t taste too bad. And he still wanted it inside him. Katsuki could go choke on a dick and Viktor would still get what he wanted. He let the erection slide out of his mouth with a slick _pop_ , and laughed, a tiny, weak thing. “I, uh, it’s fine? You just pulled too hard there,” he chirped. “I don’t want to have to explain why half my hair is missing.” 

The other man laughed, too, deep and grating. “Yeah. Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. “There’s other ways to—” he carded a hand through the silver strands, and pulled to bring Viktor’s mouth back towards his cock“—rough you up. How about—”

“How about I take you up the ass?” suggested Viktor. The man choked on his words. 

Viktor smiled and then winked at him for good measure. “I bet that’d feel a lot better than my mouth, yes?” 

He nodded. His breath began to come faster and faster in harsh pants, clearly excited. So was Viktor, if only because he was about to get what he wanted. “Wow, can’t believe I get to—” the man’s voice faded away. His eyes looked eager, and his hands were even more so, almost lifting Viktor up bodily from where he’d knelt on the ground and throwing him onto the bed.

He landed with a soft _oof._ The other man loomed over him, his muscles even larger from this angle. Viktor squirmed, arching his neck and moving his body to still just so into a pose that he knew made him look particularly delicious to men of certain tendencies. 

“Condoms and lube are in the bedside drawer,” he purred. “You know what to do, yes?” 

“Of course I do,” said the man, giving his own cock a firm stroke. “Gotta treat a pretty little thing like you right.” 

Right. Like Viktor couldn’t kick him out right now for calling him a _pretty little thing._

The lube was slick and cold on his fingers. He let it warm up on his skin, as the other man struggled to get a condom on. After he’d fingered himself to the point where he was impatient and the other man couldn’t stop putting his hands on his hips, he positioned himself on his back, and let himself be bent over even more until his knees were almost in line with his head.

 _Showtime_. Viktor held his breath as he felt the head begin to breach his hole, the glide of the lube making things easier. The other man bottomed out; Viktor moaned, the sound petering out to a sigh, the sensation lighting up all his nerve endings. 

Finally! So much work just to get to this.

The man grunted as he moved his hips back and thrust forward, leaning over Viktor to place his hands on the headboard. They were gaze to gaze, his form backlit by the lamps. 

He surged forward again. this time, it felt good. It felt amazing. 

“Can you just,” Viktor panted, looking up at him with wide eyes, “Harder? I want it hard, I want you to—” Another thrust, and _oh,_ _yes_ , that was so good. 

He held on for dear life to this stranger’s broad shoulders while his prostate got pounded three times out of ten. It started off _fantastic_! But he soon came to discover that the man talked too much. It was enough to moan and keen from the feeling, from the sensations; most of the time, he even meant it. 

But the other man just would not shut up. “Yeah, baby, your ass is so tight, you like that, don’t you—”

Viktor let his thoughts drift, if only to tune out the other man’s dirty talk, which made his own erection flag rather than keep him hard. He kept grunting and huffing indelicately on top of Viktor, until suddenly, his whole body went stiff and he jolted, a final thrust into him that almost pushed Viktor over the edge. 

But not quite.

“Hey, can you,” said Viktor, huffing. Dammit, he was heavy, his whole body on top of Viktor. Everything was sweaty, and his hair was now a mess. “Let up a bit, I haven’t come yet.”

“Oh, sorry.” The other man pushed himself up onto his forearms, eyeing Viktor hungrily, if a little tired. “Let me help with that.” Then a hand was on his erection, jerking it a little too roughly for his taste. 

Viktor sighed, before thinking better of it and letting it come out as a moan. The man smirked and continued the motion of his hand. It was joined by Viktor’s own hand, and together, the combined pressure and moisture from the sweat had Viktor pulsing in their cupped grip and his limbs shaking.

He didn’t remember much of what happened next. The cleanup, the getting comfy under the covers because he wanted someone to cuddle with who wasn’t Makka—who was asleep by now in her dog bed—the waking up in the morning with bleary eyes and a familiar soreness in his lower body.

Things got awkward when his bedmate woke up. It always was, with this sort of thing; he didn’t even know his name. The sheets had been messed up beyond repair in the aftermath, moist with sweat and fluids. A wrapper lay shiny and ripped up on the floor, the used condom covered with tissues in the waste bin next to his bed. 

Viktor sighed, looking at the mess after a shower and breakfast. The man’s cologne still lingered in the sheets, a little overpowering now that the haze of alcohol wasn’t there to mask it. He’d have to wash them twice, maybe even thrice to get the smell out.

There were a few new messages in the group chat. Photos from Georgi of his morning-after with Darya, spent at a cafe down the block from his apartment with baked goods that were definitely not on their nutrition plan. Mila showing off a hickey on her neck – _he didn’t know how to dance, but he made up for it_. 

There wasn’t much to share from Viktor’s side – except _I got a noisy one, he just wouldn’t shut up._ He spent his day off lounging around in loose cotton sweats on his couch, watching a soap opera he’d found himself strangely addicted to, savoring the gape in his ass and the feeling of having been bared and opened from the inside, if a little unskillfully. Makkachin napped on top of him. They went for a walk, before running back inside to fend off the cold nip of the air from the last bridge they’d crossed. He made his batch meals for the week. Bored and having run out of his stash of books by 5 pm, he scoured YouTube again. 

Maybe he rewatched some videos that have gripped and refused to let go of his soul—mostly, of Katsuki’s Prix de Lausanne win at age 18 as Prince Desire, before he grew taller and filled out deliciously, of his Matador dance in Don Quixote last season, before he broke his leg. Maybe he let himself daydream a bit, let himself wonder about what would have transpired last night if things had turned out differently if Mila hadn’t had such bad timing—

All of a sudden it was 9 pm and time to tuck in for bed. Another week, another challenging session with his physio, another set of drills and, and—he checked his planner—ballet on Tuesday with Katsuki.

Maybe he should bring it up. Casually, as if in passing, and like he was actually cool, not trying to hide his excitement at actually having something to talk to the other man about aside from ballet. Something like, “Hey, so about that kiss on Saturday night, do you maybe want to try again?” Maybe Katsuki would even bring it up himself.

But of course, Viktor had shit luck with men. Back in the studio, nothing much changed. 

Except perhaps for the creeping awareness, the shared knowledge that they’d been at the same club that night, and that things had come to a boiling point of perfection between them in the form of a kiss that still had Viktor’s lips tingling—Katsuki didn’t treat him or look at him any differently come Tuesday. Maybe Katsuki didn’t even care.

It stung. Just a littlebit.

“Gross, could you not look at him like that?” screeched Yura, breaking Viktor out of his spiral of thoughts. “The fish can see your pining from down in the Neva. You’re disgusting! Pathetic! Take it somewhere else. Go find a hockey player and choke on his—”

“Aww, poor Yura,” tutted Viktor. “Scared I might compete for his affections?” Yura yelled in frustration and stomped off, just as the man in question finally returned from finding a replacement for their pianist. 

They collided at the door. Yuuri held out a firm arm to stop the teenager from bolting. “Ah, Plisetsky, where are you going?” he asks softly. 

The teenager grumbled and then tried to word his distaste in stilted English. “To toilet to puke. Viktor is being disgusting.” Yura gave him the stink eye. “He will not stop mooning over _someone_.”

“You can find him disgusting and still dance,” Katsuki admonished. Then he looked between the two of them, as if considering the mood in the room. 

Mila and Georgi were busy with their phones. He called them to attention. “Fine. I’ll put you at separate ends of the barre.”

Viktor’s not sure what sort of magic he then pulled with Yura, but the teenager began to quiet down and go through their class without much complaint. Personally, Viktor didn’t recall ever being so grumbling or bad-tempered when he was younger.

“More like a nuisance, a complete brat that never listened to me,” Yakov would have retorted. “It’s a miracle you ever bothered to listen to me.” Well, but that was because Yakov was so fun to tease! He let Viktor get away with so many things and still pushed him in the way he needed with his skating. 

It was a good working relationship, if perhaps bad for Yakov’s blood pressure. Let it not be said that Viktor Nikiforov was ever boring.

But here, under Katsuki’s inspection, with his soft touches to adjust his form and the weight of his presence making Viktor stand up straighter, he only wanted to be one thing: beautiful enough to catch his attention.

The instructor continued to be a conundrum, soft-looking black hair with a fringe that fell into his eyes as he danced, cheek fat that shouldn’t be possible on a man his age, eyes that crinkled when he smiled. He mostly wore sweats and leg warmers in class, for all that it was summer— 

The timing was lost when Yura began to needle Viktor about the jumps he owed him before Viktor could even walk up to Katsuki and ask about last Saturday. The moment was lost completely when Katsuki walked out the door with a soft “See you all on Thursday.” 

He never mentioned Saturday. Never even looked at Viktor with a knowing look in his eye. He just kept teaching, kept treating them all the same. 

The students in the class before theirs began to despair. Two weeks later, rumors had spread like wildfire, a whisper passed from the upper secondary level girls to theirs, that Katsuki was dating a pole dancer from the studio down the block. It was the same studio Lilia once spoke about with grudging admiration after paying it a visit. 

A little bit of gossiping confirmed it was a she. But the memories of that night, of that scorching kiss and the squeeze of a hand on his behind, how Katsuki had kissed another man with such ease, such smoothness and heat, would not leave Viktor. 

It took him by the heart, the soul, for all his attempts at forgetting. He could be in the middle of a book, or walking Makkachin, or composing a new step sequence, when the question would strike: what would it be like to pick up from where they left off? 

It got so bad that when Katsuki came close in their sessions, Viktor tried his best not to stare at certain body parts, kept his gaze strictly on acceptable spots—arms, legs, the broad shoulders that tapered to a slim waist and flared out to curved hips. Distracting, but not indecent. 

But nevermind that. Viktor had his priorities. He needed to suss out what was going on with Katsuki, that kiss, and the pole dancing studio first.

Vasily from the corps had gushed about pole dancing’s all-encompassing effects, the ease with which ballet dancers could take up the moves. Viktor cornered him at the academy cafeteria, asking in innocence what the classes were like. 

“Everything needs to be flexed,” he said, eyes lit up. “And you can infuse a lot of ballet into it, so it’s a nice change without having to think too much.”

“That’s cool,” replied Viktor, pleasant. “Do you know if Katsuki goes there?”

Vasily’s expression turned sly. “Are you going to follow him there too?”

“Too? I’m not the first to ask, then?” 

“No, far from it. I think half the morning class has joined because of Katsuki.”

  
“I see. I’m just curious, that’s all. I might join them.“ An offhand response, almost bored. Vasily looked unconvinced.

“He mentioned it might be good to put less weight on my knee.” He gestured broadly at the offending body part. 

Amused with this turn of events, Vasily tittered. Katsuki’s pull clearly spread far beyond their little private group of skaters. Like ducklings following the mother duck, or a cult following its leader, it was hard to say.

Signing up had been easy, just clicks of his fingers across a keyboard and the zing of his credit card being charged. The actual class itself on his day off was strange! Painful! Difficult! He’d never felt so ungraceful and clumsy in his whole life, and without the cold of the rink to hide his blush on. 

But he could lift himself up into a straddle and remembered to point his toes, at which the teacher smiled. “Not bad, Vitya. See you next week.” 

Sadly, no sign of Katsuki at all. He’d have to go back for more of this torture again. 

But it was not all for naught; a passing glance at the waiting room outside revealed Katsuki, waiting in sweats for the advanced tricks class to begin. He would have stopped by to say hi, except a second look at the studio mirrors revealed his frizzy hair and pink, splotchy face. 

He couldn’t meet Katsuki like this! But Mama didn’t raise a quitter. In fact, perhaps mama hadn’t raised him at all the last few years. 

* * *

Things changed in the third week; there was an interview with _Express_ that he couldn’t shirk for the threat of being branded as _washed out_ and _last week’s news_ , or at least according to Natalya from Press Management on Yubileynyy’s third floor. 

She’d sent him a nice email with clear instructions on how to act. He had to play to a type—the slightly more well-established sportsman enthusiastic to meet his fellow competitors on the world stage, hungry to prove himself again amidst the brand new talent pouring into the field, assured but not too cocky about his chances. How he managed to balance all that in one interview without slipping in what he really thought was anyone’s guess. Maybe the acting classes were working.

It did mean that he switched into a different pole dance class; the front desk told him he was in studio 3, and to go ahead because the instructor was already in. He opened the door to find Katsuki, moving through a series of moves like a snake on the pole while music played. 

Viktor’s jaw dropped. There was ... very little clothing, a lot of skin on display, a slight layer of sweat, muscles working. His shorts were so tight and tiny, they’re a hair’s width away from indecent.

The silence was only broken when another student tried to make their way past him. Katsuki turned to look at the noise, eyes lighting up in recognition. A quick wave was aimed at Viktor. He waved back, unsure what to do next.

“You can come closer, I don’t bite,” called out Katsuki, kneeling to rummage through his bag and pull a shirt on. It was a pity, seeing all of that skin go—except the hem reached just the top of Katsuki’s shorts. 

Somehow, it was even worse than before; it was the exact kind of look that Viktor would wear to seduce a boyfriend. The man himself didn’t seem to think twice of how it might look to other people, walking over to adjust the sound system. 

He shifted from foot to foot, trying to adjust himself discreetly. Thinking of Yakov in the paisley bathrobe from last year’s summer camp helped kill his arousal somewhat, a smile finding its way onto his face.

The start of the class was just like previous ones, warm-ups and stretches, made a little distracting by … Katsuki’s plush behind in tight shorts that hug the globes of his cheeks. It’s tempered by the conditioning. They were largely bearable, if not more strenuous than his usual training regime. However, they became difficult to go through a second time in the day after two hours of being on the ice and three in the weight room and one on the plyometrics bench.

The other students grumbled and groused through the pain. Viktor was the last man standing. Nonetheless, “Mercy!” he called out, along with a few others. Laughter filled the studio, but Katsuki gave no quarter, a dancer turned torturer for the first third of the class. 

They moved on to the tricks, and then a little bit of choreography. Katsuki walked them through it all without losing his breath, although his Russian was somewhat rudimentary. 

He made all of it look very easy. It was not. 

In the corner, a woman looked on, assessing. Sometimes, she stepped in to instruct when Katsuki was busy with other students. As such, Viktor never seemed to get roped into Katsuki’s circle of attention—not that he minded. It would have been a little embarrassing for them to meet when Viktor was red-faced and clumsy and very bad at something. Not a good look. 

He was used to eating ice when trying a new jump, but this was somehow new territory. It’s hard to trick his brain into focusing when he was so intently aware of the other man’s presence.

In fact, Viktor wondered why Katsuki doesn’t seem to acknowledge or recognise him at all, until the end of the class. He walked over to his corner, where Katsuki was packing up, getting ready to go. The moment he put his spectacles on, his eyes widened almost comically as Viktor came over.

He took a step back, almost pressing himself up against the wall. “Nikiforov! I didn’t know you were here.”

An opening! Viktor took it. “I think your class killed my thighs. I did not know that was possible!” It was the truth. The skin of his thighs felt tenderised. Katsuki chuckled, a small smile appearing on his face.

They made idle chit-chat, and while it was nice, the awkwardness persisted. No matter how hard he tried, Katsuki was inching back into his shell with every sentence they exchanged. It was like grasping at straws. He was completely different when teaching versus outside the studio; Viktor doesn’t know how to overcome that, how to break through that veneer of otherness building up around him. 

_Sigh._ Surely he wasn’t the only student Yuuri had encountered here who’d followed him over from Vaganova!

Someone called Yuuri’s name from behind him, a feminine voice saying in accented English, “Yuuri-kun! You ready to get going?” 

Katsuki’s eyes lit up, and Viktor turned to face the interloper. A tiny woman by both his and Katsuki’s standards; she was compact, with brown hair, and a sweet face that sported features similar to Katsuki. 

She also had a sizable chest that made even Viktor wince internally at his own flatness. 

Another instructor? A friend?

“Sorry, are you his student?” She gestured at the door and smiled at them, cheery. “I can wait outside if you’re still busy.” 

Viktor looked at Katsuki. There was a small smile on his face that had appeared as soon as she’d arrived. “No, Yuu-chan. We were just finishing up. I’ll meet you outside?”

Yuu-chan. So that was who she was. He wondered how they had met, who had made the first move.

They bid each other goodbye and good night—acceptable, for acquaintances. At least, that was what he thought they were. It was difficult not to bristle at the sight of Yuu-chan bumping into Katsuki and chattering in a foreign language—Japanese?—as they shared the elevator, Viktor the awkward third wheel. 

It was hard to ignore the small, earnest smile on Katsuki’s face that made his dimples pop out. 

Yuu-chan and Katsuki parted ways with him on the sidewalk, calling out a goodbye as they head off to find dinner. Viktor stayed rooted in place while the evening breeze blew through his long hair, watching them leave. At one point, Yuu-chan loped an arm around Katsuki’s. The other man didn’t seem to mind and kept listening. He even let loose a quiet laugh that carried on the wind, back towards Viktor. 

So it was true. A helpless attraction on all sides at Vaganova, because Katsuki was already spoken for, just two months in.

Viktor fiddled with the strap of his bag, kicking a loose pebble off the sidewalk into the way of an oncoming car. It bounced and rattled to the other side of the street until it finally fell into the drain. 

Perhaps it was for the best; Viktor needed fewer distractions and more single-minded focus if he wanted to return to the ice victorious. Who cared about that kiss in the club? Who cared about Katsuki? Viktor was a busy man. He needed to focus his efforts on more worthwhile things.

So Viktor walked in the opposite direction as the pair, going home to his dog and his dinner for one. 

* * *

There was a text from Natalya the next day during ice time. _Can you come up to Press Mgmt at 3? And don’t check social media!_

That left him a little spooked. _Wait, what happened? Did he do something again?_

She replied almost immediately. _Someone released compromising photos of you._

His hands shook, the phone almost falling out his fingers. The world seemed unnaturally still. _Was it him? I thought we managed to get everything …_

_We’re not sure. This one seems like it was more recent. Did you go out to a club last weekend?_

_Yes, with Georgi, Mila, Ivan and Marya._ He couldn’t resist the temptation to see things for himself. The breaths came faster through his nose as he checked Twitter and Instagram. A gut feeling made him check Reddit and VKontakte, too. A quick scan confirmed his suspicions. 

It wasn’t Danyl. In fact, he wasn’t sure if this was better or worse – shots of a lightly muscled shoulder and pink nipples, his face half-hidden by his hair. The light was low enough that the whole atmosphere of it seemed private, if illicit. 

The sheet barely covered him. He had just washed those same sheets yesterday.

_Hello #fs #figure skating I heard you wanted new content now that #ViktorNikiforov’s stuck in recovery._

It was that bastard from the club. The shithead who had called Viktor names like baby, kitten, and princess, and wouldn’t shut up and had not even bothered to make him come!

Viktor let out a huff of frustration. Alright, that was it! He was taking a break from men. A sabba… what was that English word, the one for a break, a sabbata-something, a—a sabbatical! That was right, a sabbatical from dating and sleeping with strangers. It was all more trouble than it was worth. 

Over on the ice, Yakov boomed. “Viktor Petrovich, stop staring at your phone. Break time’s over.” 

_I’ll come over in an hour_ , he texted back, before ripping off his skate guards and almost skidding into a stop in front of Yakov. He smiled, almost wincing at the way his teeth grit together. Yakov noticed. 

“Alright, Yakov,” he said, folding his arms together to hide how badly they shook. “But I need to be at Press Management in an hour, so let’s get to work!”

Natalya’s face was less grim than he’d thought it would be by the time he finally made it to the office at the end of the third floor. “Your fan club’s loyal, at least,” she said, not even bothering to greet him. Straight to the point. “They flooded social media with some … very strange images to bring attention to your photos down.”

Hmm. _Hmmm!_ How interesting. So writing back to all those letters during his recovery had come to the rescue after all.

But just for good measure, and because he was petty, they agreed to a statement that was a little more organic, because that was his whole brand right now: flirty and flighty and enthusiastic. And if she had sighed and said, “I’ll have to explain this to Yakov Davidovich, but just do it quickly,” then that was just between them. 

_Oops! While I’m flattered someone thought my sleeping face was nice enough to post online, I wish they’d taken_ _better photos. these don’t even get my good side!_ 😱

That appeared to stoke the flames higher. Now, there were threads that ranged from ‘Oh no his nudes were leaked’ to incoherent rants about how ‘Viktor’s private life and who he slept with is his own, and how he is still far too young to have to deal with any of this!’

Viktor made a _pfft_ as he scrolled through one of them. A nice thought. But after almost four years of this sort of up and down in the media and social media and Yakov claiming that he'd gone bald because of Viktor post-Olympics — and the threat of much worse almost two years ago — he supposed he should have been ready for this outcome by now. He should have kicked that no-good one night stand the moment they'd finished up.

But no matter, because he was swearing off romance, off sex, off the yearning for a relationship for the foreseeable future! Skating would be his love, the ice his focus. Nothing could change his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Raven Girl from World Ballet Day: https://youtu.be/toBG-y3RweE
> 
> The male dancer here is Ryoichi Hirano, a Japanese principal of the Royal Ballet (London). I base much of Yuuri's prior performances and career on his track record (http://www.roh.org.uk/people/ryoichi-hirano), with a convenient career crisis and leg injury for Yuuri as of the start of our story.
> 
> VKontakte is a Russian-language SNS with its HQ in St. Petersburg: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/VK_(service)
> 
> Komarovo is a vacation spot/municipal settlement near Piter.
> 
> There are parts of this fic inspired by the great work of fic authors before me. I will try my best to acknowledge the ones I referenced and pulled from with each chapter.


	2. the discovery of the sacred sensual self

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dealing with the fallout of the photo leak, Viktor decides to take a sabbatical from men, dating, and romance. He attempts to return his focus to skating – but his body still gets the best of him. 
> 
> He arranges a booty call for Skate Canada with an older admirer, goes for a walk in search of ice cream with Makkachin, and makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This week's chapter totaled 18k words after I edited it, at which point I decided it would be better to save some of the surprises for next week.
> 
> My eternal gratitude to Nikki and Alisa for helping me catch typos, continuity errors and providing invaluable feedback.
> 
> Nikki pointed out that Viktor gets really mouthy throughout this fic ... I've tried to rein him in a bit, but it's ok, his heart shaped mouth will still get him to his happy ending. After some mishaps. Eventually!

**Lovefool – The Cardigans**

Attraction was like a garden. It needed water and sunlight and room to grow, as well as kind, gentle attention. Viktor had none of these at all from any party he actually liked, and so the feelings had faded to pure aesthetic appreciation by the end of June.

The spring wind had turned warmer and warmer as the need for heating the studios at Vaganova had decreased. Viktor had arrived one day to find that his heart no longer fluttered and his loins no longer stirred at the sight of Katsuki stretching at the barre. He’d been pleased with himself, although a little sad to lose a source of personal entertainment.

The next two weeks stretched out before him, regular like clockwork. Morning walk with Makka, then head over to the rink for stretches, conditioning and ice time with Yakov, and then lunch for an hour. Acting classes during Tuesdays and Thursdays; then English lessons after those. In the afternoons on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, he did ballet and ballroom.

That didn’t include all the sponsorship engagements and modelling to make up for the lost income from missed ice shows.

There was always so much to do, barely any time to do groceries and take care of the sundry things around his apartment. Slowly, thoughts of dating and romance began to relinquish their hold on Viktor. He even changed the type of books he read, finally eager for something other than the trashy novels he’d been ingesting since the start of his whole recovery period. He started with short stories, then Aelita, then Heart of a Dog. He moved on to Do Androids Dream of Sheep, then tried the movie and fell asleep a third of the way in.

But the romance and fantasy books called out to him. By his next day off, he was back at his favorite bookstore and seated in the cafe behind it, leafing through the new arrivals once more as the afternoon sunlight streamed through the rafters.

His friendship with Chris picked up again, too, after seeing a particularly juicy new photo on the other man’s Instagram. Speaking French came back like riding a bike.

" _Qui est-il!_ ” he gushed into his phone when the other skater picked up. “And before you ask, yes, I forgive you. No, recovery is boring and it sucks. I couldn’t even accept any ice show invites off the continent because we weren’t sure how my injury would heal. And yes, tell me all the details, because I need to live vicariously through _someone_.”

 _“Ca va, mon cher,”_ purred Chris over the line. Then he coughed because trying to make his voice sexy was a skill he’d yet to master at 19. “His name’s Thibault, and he’s a swimmer who’s considering making a move to Geneva. Nicer waters, he said. We met at the pool.”

A ping from his phone told him that Chris had sent a picture.

 _Oh._ Hmm. Well, that shoulder to waist ratio... Viktor whistled in appreciation. “Nice. At least one of us is meeting people.”

“What happened to that older man you spoke of last time? The one you met at World’s?”

“We’re texting! But he travels a lot for work, so…” If he said anymore about what Hiroshi did for work, Chris would inevitably figure out that Viktor was sleeping with the enemy: someone who worked for the ISU. “I had to get creative. Then I think you saw the leak from last week, right? Thank God for my fans, and I really mean it this time.”

“I make it a habit not to be an asshole. And from your statement, it seems they’re not even good photos. Do you know who did it?”

“Some bastard I brought home from the club who didn’t even bother to make me come,” quipped Viktor. “Chris, I’ve forgotten how difficult it is to find someone nice.”

“Then go on a dating app? Pick up a new skill? That’s how I met Thibault.” Viktor _pffted_. If only it were that easy. The leak had proven that Viktor’s reasons for a sabbatical were sound.

“I’m going to die all alone, and Makka’s going to starve and eat my rotting remains to feed herself,” he said mournfully.

Chris snorted, and the laughter was infectious enough that Viktor managed a few chuckles himself. “ _Mon cher_ , you’re too good-looking for that.”

“For what? For not getting eaten by a dog who hasn’t been fed?”

“ _Non!_ Dying alone. Besides, you’re just 20. Stop being so dramatic. And I still have to beat you for gold.”

It was meant in jest, and Viktor knew that, so he bit back what he wanted to say: “Seems like that’s all I’m good for. Being the thing everyone wants to knock over. Even Georgi still gets pissy at me, and he and I have done things.”

Instead, what came out was: “Let’s make a bet on that. Whoever wins…”

“Whoever wins gets their cock sucked. How original,” Chris drawled.

“Oh, shut up. You of all people enjoy a good blowjob.”

“Then let’s up the ante. Whoever wins gets whatever they want.” He could imagine it, the wolfish edge in Chris’ smile.

“Is that a nice way of saying you’re coming for my ass?” At least he could rely on Chris to take both their pleasure in hand, literally.

“I might change my mind between now and then.”

“Sounds fine by me,” Viktor agreed. “Now, onto more pressing matters. What books have you been reading lately? Anything particularly good?”

“Oh! Let me tell you about this one, it’s called Discovery of the Sacred Sensual Self…”

It was fun to talk to his friend again, to make plans and to share notes on new things they were trying. Chris sent a few more photos of Thibault that involved extremely tiny Speedos. They were quite nice, but Viktor kept firm to his promise, his sabbatical.

Skating was his love, the ice his focus. There was no space for anything aside from casual flings, and even they needed to be vetted by several people he trusted. By Mila and Makka at the very least!

During sessions at the Vaganova, he worked on zeroing in on the changes necessary and otherwise acting perfunctorily around the man who slowly carved their small cadre of skaters into walking examples of the three graces. Perhaps it was their encounter at the pole dance studio that had made Katsuki think they were friendlier than they truly were, but even he appeared to be put off by Viktor’s new attitude at first.

By the end of two weeks and the start of August, it became the new, uneasy normal.

Mila commented on his newfound aloofness during lunch. “You’ve changed. What happened?”

“She’s right. You’ve become less disgusting.” Yura cut in, sneering through the food in his mouth. Did they not feed little boys enough in Moscow that he felt the need to scarf down everything in two minutes? Then again, Viktor remembered being young and hungry all the time. “He rejected you, didn’t he?”

Viktor wrinkled his nose and sucked at his protein shake. “Nothing changed.” His mouth formed a moue of nonchalance. “I just figured out my priorities.”

He’d finished out the slots at the pole dance studio last week, and had managed to beg off the end of term showcase, saying he’s busy with other engagements. That was all true, of course—he had a shoot on the same day as the showcase that ended up airbrushing all his freckles out in the final print. He had been a little sad to see them go, but the editor had wanted perfection.

The schedule and the timing also meant he didn’t have to see Katsuki and Yuuko together at all, though that was just happenstance.

Right.

* * *

There was a month and a half left before the season began and then his first qualifier—Skate Canada. The long flight from Piter to Kelowna was bound to be exhausting despite the upgrade to first class, courtesy of a longtime sponsor. And because of the looming start of the season, the mood in the rink had begun to pick up and settle into a concentrated electricity, ready to rumble as the clock ticked closer to competition time.

Little Yura grew less noisy, more quietly grumbly as they all set their noses to the grindstone. So were Mila and Georgi. The romance with Daria had fizzled out, and now Georgi was pouring his soul into new choreographies that painted the breaking of his heart, “the loss of a true connection, Viktor, but how could you ever understand that?”

Viktor supposed he couldn’t, not really. But he took what he could get.

Mila was a little more whimsical. “I want to skate about my childhood,” she said, leaning against the boards, sipping at her water.

“Don’t we all,” drawled Viktor.

Yakov came in to yell at them to get started. “Are you just here to waste my time or are you here to work?”

So he worked. He worked so hard that he fell asleep as soon as his body hit the bed, not even bothering to change clothes. In the intervening time—when he was not busy with training and other engagements and cross-training and press and the other worlds of books—he still found himself hungering for the drag, the feel of another person against him, alone at night except for the snores from beloved Makkachin.

His phone screen showed a host of text threads that had fizzled out. Viktor didn’t dare go on Russian Grindr right now, where the paps and the journalists could find him and rat out his habits. He was still spooked by the leak even if he’d tried to act differently about it.

There was also an unexplained photo and accompanying card in his cubbyhole at the rink this morning that made all the hair on his nape stand on end—a shot of him from Komarovo just last weekend, naked from the waist up with the water hiding his swim trunks and his hair in wet tendrils over his shoulder, Makkachin over on the shore.

 _You’re always so beautiful_ , it said. _I wish I could whisk you away and keep you somewhere only I could get to see you, Vika_. The card had been typed, and it was scentless—yet Viktor had a very good idea of who had sent it.

He called Natalya to let her know to keep fanmail for him for the end of the month. And to sort it carefully —“Danyl sent me a card,” he said, and that was all the explanation she needed.

At the end of two weeks, he felt the itch under his skin again. Grindr looked so tempting but no one wanted to even talk before sending him a badly taken photo of their penis. And the lighting was usually terrible! Sure, he advertised himself as _23, single, up for some fun_ , but the options honestly got depressing sometimes.

“You’re on the wrong platform!” Chris giggled over their Skype call. “Try Bumble or … Raya, or something. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble getting on there, your Olympic medal should be enough.”

“Nevermind,” said Viktor. That sounded exhausting, somehow. “I might as well buy myself some new toys. Any recommendations are welcome!”

One order with overnight shipping later, and he was hauling a box through his front door with blown-out hair and a full face of makeup. There had been a shoot today that had eclipsed his normal Saturday half-day training in the offseason. The aftermath? He knew he looked fabulous, amazing, with his hair draping his back in waves and his eyeshadow glinting in the early evening.

Almost ready to go to a club, to go pick someone up.

But, Viktor reminded himself, he’d sworn off men. He could break his bad habits. And tonight was the perfect night to try his purchases out.

He let the toy cleaner do its magic while he walked Makka, and then rinsed them off before making a light dinner. While his food cooked, he set the alarm for forty-five minutes. Enough time to get familiar with his new purchases.

The item that excited him the most was the pink glass one called _French Kiss_ with swirls all along the shaft. It was long, curved like a tentacle, and a little thinner than his previous purchases, but it had been so pretty in the photos.

The real thing didn’t disappoint; coupled with the coolness of the lube, the gaze of the photographer from earlier, and selections from previous pleasurable encounters, it was glorious.

He caught his own gaze in the mirror from across the bed, naked with a flush that spread from his cheeks to his shoulders and chest, and down to his legs spread apart. His feet were perched on the edge as his hand pumped the pink glass object in and out of him. The motion made sounds that spurred his arousal on further, a slow _schlick_ and _schloop_ that made his blood burn and rush to his erection, standing hard and angry against his stomach. His other hand clutched at the bedsheets, wrinkling them irreparably. The tip of the shaped tentacle pressed against his prostate, just like he wanted it—a leg jerked, and he let out a loud moan.

Could he come like this, with just the dildo? The reflection in the mirror opened its mouth into a perfect ‘O,’ accentuated by the shine of his lips, still coated with gloss. He recalled a similar situation from more than a year ago—taking a video of pleasuring himself like this, sending it to Danyl.

His hand stopped, pulling the dildo out fully. Well, he’d learned from his mistakes. That was exactly what he was doing right now, spending time getting to know himself, _a la_ the Discovery of the Sacred Sensual Self.

He pressed the toy into himself again, fully laying on his back this time and letting himself stretch out, up towards the headboard. He rolled onto the side, his hair falling into a halo of silver strands around him. A few strands caught in his mouth, and he had to extricate them first before moving his hand to palm at his erect cock.

Tonight, with twenty minutes left on the clock before his food was done cooking, Viktor let his imagination run away from him. His breaths got faster and faster as the dildo pushed in and out of him—Viktor repositioned his legs to better thrust into himself and into his other hand at the same time.

He let himself imagine that someone loved him enough to do this with him. That it wasn’t his own hands touching him, that a deep voice whispered into his ear as they pleasured him with the toy— _come on, I like it when you make a little noise. You can be good for me and let me know how much you like it, yes?_

Viktor moaned into his hair as the pleasure built and built in his cock and belly, the dildo hitting the exact spot that made him see stars. His lipstick left stains on the bed sheet, a little drool falling out of his mouth as the sensations made him open-mouthed with ecstasy. And yet it wasn’t quite enough. An edge of awareness remained—it didn’t quite replace the drag and silky feel of skin, the taste and the flavor, the fluids and the spit and the cum and the call and response, the weight of another person.

So after he came, blinking into his hair with the burn of the toy in his ass and the timer beeping in the kitchen, he felt a little strange. His other hand was all wet from his spend; he’d come hard, enough that there were a few drops in his hair that he’d have to wash off later. His limbs felt loose, and his mind felt somewhat clearer.

But it still wasn’t quite what he wanted.

Even following the Discovery of the Sacred Sensual Self didn’t replace his needs for dick, it seemed. He sighed through scrubbing his face free of make-up, through his dinner, and he sighed through his chores.

He stared at the paint on the ceiling in bed that night, wondering about what to do the next day. Wondering if he should just give in. “It’s just sex, Makka,” he whispered to her, but more to convince himself, as she snored beside him. “And he was clearly gagging for a second round last time, I just had to fly off before we could.”

Out of a low creeping desperation for relief, he texted Hiroshi, the ISU technical specialist with the beautiful Armani suit he’d met in Tokyo at last year’s Worlds gala. He rolled around in bed as a car honked on the street below, remembering their tryst with a bit of a frisson around his bones. Very memorable, especially peeling off the suit.

At the very least, the rules here were clear cut, much clearer than that mess of confusing thoughts he’d developed around Katsuki that were now laid to rest after a few weeks of focus, nothing but focus, eyes on the prize.

Hiroshi texted back within the hour: _yes, I’ll be at Skate Canada._ Where was he now, that he was still awake at 10PM in Piter? Viktor worked up to requesting he set aside time enough for an evening together. The reply came wry, smirking over bytes and data: _Of course. Anything for my favorite little skater._

He blew a strand of hair out his face after seeing that, somewhat huffy. He wasn’t little. When put side by side he remembered they’d been about the same height, and he’d been ever taller with his skates on.

Truth be told, Viktor was just … running out of convenient options. Sending nudes was tempting but risky, as the leak had proven. Chris had Thibault, and Viktor wasn’t interested in causing trouble. Sleeping with someone from the rink was asking for just that. And Georgi had already found a new lady to moon over. So really, Hiroshi was the only logical option.

Viktor tried again to keep to his sabbatical in the morning, after waking up with a hard morning wood that absolutely refused to go away even after thinking about the worst things he could—Yakov in Lilia’s old paisley bathrobe, the shining bald spot that older sponsor had tried to hide with a combover.

This time, he chose baby pink silicone and hefted it in his hand. It was large enough to leave his ass sore and gaping, but it was so fulfilling, especially when he was on all fours and imagining a man behind him. The scents of their bodies would blend and float into his nostrils. Two hands would grip his hips hard enough to leave indents, maybe even bruises that would take days to disappear.

He stripped off his bikini briefs, leaving his body exposed to the air, his nipples peaked and red from his own fingers pinching at them before he’d gotten into the rhythm of the dildo sliding in and out of his ass, still a little sore from last night. The sheets were a mess. It was taking him so long to cum. He tilted his head to the side, letting his hair fall over one shoulder and expose his neck to the air.

He moaned and kicked and screamed, dragging it out as much as he could. It _still_ wasn’t enough.

Viktor could hear Makka scratching at the door, concerned at the noises. It was locked; she’d woken earlier than him and had bounded out of the room as his eyes had opened.

He quieted and waited for her to go away after she became disinterested. Once more, the grip of his hand over the silicone tightened, and his arm picked up the pace. Rolling over onto his stomach made it feel a bit more real. He cried out into the pillow, letting out small gasps and keens, saliva gathering at the edge of his mouth and wetting the cotton.

 _Come on, Vitya._ It would have been in a soft tone coupled with violent thrusts into him, a voiced suggestion that would tip him over the edge. _Just a little more. You can be good for me, can’t you? Come on. Scream, show me how much you like it—_

His other hand kept stroking his dick, pressed against the towel he’d laid out to catch his mess. The friction was unbearable, the precum made it a little better and his erection kept rubbing against the moisture of his palm while his other hand with the dildo kept pace, thrusting in and out of his hole.

The sensations built. He moaned into the fabric of the bedsheet, a soft, drawn-out cry.

A change in angle to hit his prostate just so, like those other people at the Olympics, like Georgi, like Hiroshi would. The rest of the time became mindless, just following through, until, until ... A wave of release, mindless pleasure washing over him, spurting out in thick viscous streams onto the fluffy towel at last.

His legs twitched. The orgasm had left his limbs confused.

It was... almost perfect.

The one thing sorely lacking was an actual person who would have handed Viktor a glass of water, stroked his hair, and kissed him on the lips in a slow, lazy cloud of post-orgasmic aftermath. There was no person’s mouth to taste and lick and nibble at. Perhaps their semen would trickle down Viktor’s thigh, reminding him of how they’d formed the beast with two backs.

But there was no such person available. Viktor had to be his own aftercare—not like it had been much different the last few times he’d tried with an actual person. Moping about his lack of options didn’t help. He would be his own cheerleader! He was 20 and an adult with his own apartment, and he could make himself happy without needing someone else.

Today, no one needed to know that he intended to break his diet for ice cream, the best kind that could only be found in this tiny shop run by an elderly couple just off the edge of the Pushkinsky neighborhood. A short fifteen minutes’ walk, and so he might as well bring Makkachin along.

The season was starting soon; he needed to spend as much time with her as possible before they inevitably had to part several times for the glory of Mother Russia.

The thought of ice cream and a walk with his favorite girl through the streets of his adopted home brought in some much-needed cheer. They cut through their neighborhood, over a bridge and a few new streets. Viktor slowed to let Makka sniff around blocks and things on the street that she found curious.

The corners changed into the beginning of a commercial area. Off on one side, there was a shiny cellphone shop with flashing displays, and what seemed to be the middle of a confusing argument between the staff and a customer.

The windows were clear, and the shop itself was just about a counter and several shelves, so Viktor had a front row seat to the fuss inside. A dark-haired man was gesturing wildly with his hands, trying to indicate the problem in stilted Russian. The young store clerk appeared frustrated, clearly out of their depth with the language barrier.

The sounds carried through the open door, as Makkachin followed her nose to a nearby bush. There was a harried voice with a rolling, singsong river of vowels and consonants that badly butchered the words. It sounded like he’d heard it before … just on Friday?

Curious, Viktor wandered in, gently pulling Makka’s leash to get her attention. The clerk saw him, then saw Makka, and did a double take. “Mis—I mean, mister, no dogs allowed.”

The customer turned to face Viktor.

Speak of the devil. It was Katsuki, dressed casually in a brick red shirt and jeans.

“Viktor?”

“Ah, see here …” started Viktor. There was no way he could leave now without making a bad impression. “I’ll leave quickly, it’s just that he’s my friend and he seems to have some trouble ...”

“Uh. Yeah! What he said.”

The trouble was Katsuki trying to buy a new sim and phone plan; the Russian cell provider’s website didn’t come in much English and so he’d wanted to try his luck at a neighborhood store to get better service. Only the idea of ‘better service’ was a little fast and loose when it came to neighborhood stores like this, staffed with hormonal teenagers and young adults as part timers.

Katsuki’s Russian was still basic—the understanding came quick but with the speaking prowess of a stroke patient, so it made the back and forth challenging.

Once they left the store with a new sim and phone plan settled, Katsuki glanced at him through his glasses, the intensity of his gaze softened. He even began to smile, a shy thing. “I’m lucky you were in the area. Thank you, Viktor.”

Viktor blushed and tried to ignore the way his heart was somersaulting in his chest by looking at the bridge of the other man’s nose. “No problem. They’re often not so nice at places like this.”

“That’s an understatement. I think I heard you say a few choice things to the clerk … ?”

“Ah. I did not think you understood that.” How embarrassing! What good timing then, that Makka began to beg Viktor for attention by laying her paws on his leg.

“Sorry, let me just—” he bent down to ruffle her fur, the knee of his jeans touching the sidewalk. “She gets clingy.”

“Alright. Take your time.”

It was hard not to baby talk to her, even with how Viktor felt so nervous. “You want a treat, don’t you, Makka? Here.” Soon enough, she was licking the treat off his hand.

“And who’s this?” asked Katsuki. He became aware of the other man crouching down to their level.

Makka turned her attention to him; they considered each other, eye to eye. She leaned in, started sniffing and woofing.

Through all this, Katsuki stayed still, letting her inspect him. The smile grew on his face. Like he knew how to act around dogs.

Perhaps he owned one? Or maybe that Yuu-chan did.

Once her inspection was over, nothing could stop Makka from attacking Katsuki with licks and sloppy kisses. A standard poodle wasn’t light by any means; her weight and momentum were enough to bowl him over, before Viktor could think to stop her.

Katsuki yelped in surprise.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry! Makka baby, stop, please get off him—” He tried to pull her body back to his own, but Katsuki put a hand out wildly, finally landing on his forearm.

“It’s—” Katsuki laughed, high and bright. “—fine!” Makka jumped up, satisfied with her thorough triumph over this human. He kept laughing from his stomach, eyes crinkling. It transformed his whole face.

Viktor clutched at Makka’s collar in panic. Stupid, stupid heart. Stupid, stupid crush. Stupid, stupid Viktor, he didn’t need distractions!

“I’m alright, don’t worry,” he eked out, between laughs. “It’s just … I’ve been missing my own dog.” The smile slowly disappeared, replaced by a wistful expression. “She’s wonderful, Viktor.”

Viktor agreed, glancing over at Makka, who played innocent in a sit while he held on to her leash. “Best girl. My baby. This is Makkachin.”

Then, remembering his manners, he blurted out an apology to Katsuki, who’d been stuck on the dirty asphalt for at least five minutes. The grip of Katsuki’s hand was firm, warm, a little rough around the palms as Viktor helped him up—a thrill ran through him that lasted even after they let each other go.

In the process of dusting himself off and giving Makka a few pets, Katsuki looked him in the eye, his gaze a warm brown with hints of red. “Can I … I don’t know. Get you something to eat? As a thank you? You really saved me there.” His brow furrowed, as if remembering something unpleasant. “But my Russian’s absolutely terrible, so you’ll have to pick the place.”

Viktor stifled a snort, if only to be polite. That was true—he’d never heard his mother tongue butchered so thoroughly, except perhaps by Americans. “I have good idea,” he said.

Makka boofed his knee. She deserved a treat, as the unlikely ice breaker.

Feeling a bit more playful and a bit braver, he moved in as if imparting a secret—“But you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Not tell anyone?” Katsuki’s eyes widen comically behind his glasses. “Are you…”

“Hm?” Viktor whispered. This close up, Katsuki’s eyes definitely were not brown, but red, mixed with hints of copper. The kind mixed by the masters whose works occupied places of honor at the Hermitage.

“... Asking me to help break your diet? I think Madame Baranovskaya would kill me if she found out.” Katsuki whispered back. “Or her husband. I’m too young to die.”

He cannot help the laugh that erupts from his mouth, an ugly quack only a goose would make, or one of those swans you’d find on the Neva. Outlandish! But exactly what he was planning.

“That is why I’m making you swear secrecy,” he says, tapping a finger on his mouth. “She cannot kill both of us anyway. You’d have to break yours little bit too.”

“A little” turned out to be a lot—Caffé 500 served ice cream in scoops close to the size of one’s head. Their Zitrone flavour was a little tarter than that smaller shop in Pushkinsky, but Viktor could afford this sacrifice.

Even better: Caffé 500 had al fresco seating, and served tea. Viktor had seen Katsuki with a thermos in hand on more than one occasion.

He peeked at the other man’s face from time to time as they made their way into the shop, placed their orders, and found a place to sit. Katsuki’s expression visibly _oohs_ and _aahs_ at the interior.

The first taste of his stracciatella with a silver spoon made Katsuki light up—an expression of pure delight at the flavor that showcased his dimples.

Viktor’s heart fluttered. The chatter from the street and the shop surrounded them, as well as from other patrons enjoying their ice cream.

It was hard not to preen. This had clearly been the right choice.

“I’m a little curious,” said Viktor. Maybe it was the particularly beautiful day or the effects of the last 24 hours, how he found the guts to ask: “How did you end up here in Piter?”

“Oh,” said Yuuri. “An ex-teacher recommended me to Madame Baranovskaya. Katerina was about to head off for maternity leave. The timing was very good.”

“But you were first soloist back in London, right?”

“Yes.” He took another bite out of his ice cream.

“I saw some of your previous performances. On Youtube.”

“Ah. That’s why.” Katsuki bit his lip, letting out a small _tsk_. Overhead, birds chattered at each other in the trees lining the square. “Which ones?”

“Your La Bayadere pas de deux! Le Corsaire solo. Don Quixote one where you played Basilio to Naghdi?”

Surprise colored his features. “Oh, those? Those were three years ago? I didn’t know they had all those online.”

“Yes … And I really liked Caterpillar. The idea of legs being dancers was amazing.” And the push and flex of Katsuki’s torso in glittering purple harem pants had left him dazed. But he didn’t quite say that. 

“From last year?” Katsuki tilted his head in confusion. “I didn’t know they put that up online too.”

“Yes!” Viktor blurted. “Some rehearsal videos too.”

There was barely anything from Katsuki at all. Viktor had scoured the tags on Twitter and Instagram—the only other materials were adverts for NHK or an occasional fan cam, old photos from a corps mate called phichit+chu, raves and critiques about his performances from fans and writers, and one interview when he had made first soloist.

That was it. Precious little. Surely, Katsuki’s other fans were starved.

Of course, it didn’t beat catching the man himself dance a few sketches or short choreographies before and during class. Viktor would peek into the room, waiting for their class to start, and find Katsuki dancing, the music evident in the grace of his limbs even without any sound. It was clear he loved to dance, and that the stage was all the more poorer for not having him on it.

So he asked. “Why did you leave?”

Katsuki’s shoulders tensed.

“I broke my leg. Didn’t make sense to stay in London. That’s all there is to it, really.” He set his spoon aside and swallowed uncomfortably, the motion visible with the bob of his Adam’s apple.

Viktor’s heart stopped. Oh no. No no no. “Ah. Uh. If it helps any…” It probably didn’t, but Viktor’s brain to mouth filter had apparently been lost between the cell phone shop and right now. “I injured my knee last season. I couldn’t skate for three months. I was not even sure if I would come back this season.”

It didn’t compare, not really. But Viktor didn’t know what to say. He regretted the words the moment they left his lips.

Stupid. Absolutely stupid. From his feet, Makka pawed at his leg, finished with her dog-safe ice cream. He held onto her fur, a small comfort, and forced his face into a smile, as if to erase what he’d just said.

Yuuri considered his words while holding the spoon in his mouth. “I can imagine. Madame Baranovskaya mentioned it,” he remarked after setting it down. “She told me to pay attention to you and your knee.”

“She did? What did she say exactly?”

“That you were rehabilitating it? Maybe a few choice words that you and the other skaters would be a handful. But you’ve all been—” he looked away again “—very well behaved. Surprisingly.” As if he’d expected worse, and didn’t know what to do with the less troublesome outcome.

What was his life like then, before moving to Piter, if he’d been prepared for much worse than they’d given him?

“We only really act out with people we like.” The ice cream had begun to melt, just like Viktor’s repressed hopes and dreams for scintillating conversation with Katsuki. Where had all his smoothness and charm when dealing with the press and admirers gone? They hid from Katsuki’s doe-like gaze and adorable cheek fat. It made no sense.

“Er. I Guess I’ve not been well received then. Am I too strict?”

The words fell out of Viktor’s mouth. “No! No, not at all. It’s just that … damn, that came out all wrong. No, it’s not that! It’s the opposite. We’re actually kind of afraid of you. In awe of you.”

Katsuki almost spat out his ice cream.

“Afraid?” He coughed out. “Awe?” Katsuki kept coughing.

Worried, Viktor raised a hand to call for water. Katsuki drank and drank and drank, his throat bobbing. Viktor focused furiously on his ice cream, uncertain if he’d stepped on a landmine by accident.

When Katsuki finally got his bearings back, the words tumbled out—“I’m not sure why you’d be afraid or,” he furrowed his brow in confusion, “in awe of me. I’m just a dime a dozen dancer. But, uh. Thanks?”

“What!” His raised voice made the next table eye him nervously. “Why would you even say that? You’re a first soloist!”

“Was. I’m not one now.”

“Your track record says otherwise! What about the Prix de Lausanne, the Chaucotte Scholarship at Vaganova, the Benois nomination … the forums were all saying they should have promoted you years ago to Principal.”

Katsuki shifted uncomfortably in his seat, ice cream forgotten.

Even then, Viktor couldn’t stop his mouth. “You’re a beautiful dancer, Katsuki. That’s why we’re in awe of you. Georgi’s been meaning to ask you for help with his choreographic sequences. I based my short programme on the sketches you taught us two weeks ago.” He gestured his arms in ways reminiscent of the choreography. “You know, the one with the swooping wing motions? This one?”

Katsuki stayed quiet, cheeks pink. He furiously stared at his bowl, as if willing himself to disappear.

Viktor put his hands down in a slow trail of resignation, and acquiesced to Makka’s pleas for scratches, until she grew bored and headed to Katsuki, also asking for scratches.

They didn’t speak. The seconds grew the distance between them. The ice cream melted in their bowls. It’s so awkward that not even Makkachin’s attempts at Katsuki’s attention were enough to break the ice.

Viktor exhaled—what a complete mess. God, from bad to worse today. He just wanted some ice cream, and instead, he embarrassed himself, coming off as an obsessed fan…

He should apologize. The reality was that Katsuki was the only instructor they could work with at this point in the head, after all—and he was not especially willing to undergo one of Lilia’s lectures during their monthly dinner about wasting her time with his nonsense.

They started to speak at the same time, Viktor’s apology almost overtaking Yuuri’s quiet words.

“Sorry. I got ahead of myself—wait, what?”

“I said, those sketches, the arm movements, were from the Raven Girl. The pas de deux. It’s one of my favorites.”

The name sounded familiar. “Is it a full ballet?”

“It’s a full production adapted from this Audrey Niffenegger book, she’s the same author that wrote Time Traveler’s Wife.”

“Wait, I read that! Or I think I did. The guy who time skips without any clothes on, right? There was movie?” He pressed a finger to his mouth, thinking. “That Jennifer Garner look alike? Ohhh, I loved her on Alias.”

Katsuki brightened. “Of course you’d remember just that.” He tapped his spoon at the bottom of the dessert glass and took a sip, the ice cream long turned to mush. “It’s the book. Don’t talk to me about the movie.”

“Fine, I won’t. I haven’t seen it anyway.” Viktor waved his hand around in some vague direction. “But you said it was your favorite one, which one … Raven Girl? Her other book?”

“Raven Girl is weird, very weird. Time Traveler’s Wife was the only book close to ‘normal’ that she’s written.” He tapped a finger on the table.

“What is it even about? I’m curious.”

“So, it’s about this girl, who’s the daughter of a postman who fell in love with a raven…”

It began to cut the tension between them, this starting vein of a book turned ballet—one book turned to other books, to plots both bad and good, to books Viktor had never heard about, and even to Freytag’s pyramid, which Viktor didn’t expect anyone outside of the Deconstructing Literature class where he’d met the terrible Ex, to use in casual conversation.

Yuuri knew about so much in English, and also in his native Japanese, although he struggled to explain the plots of the latter. Somehow it … surprised Viktor? It added a whole other dimension to him. First the dancing, then the pole, and now the books.

And once he got past the shyness, Katsuki talked. Easily, charmingly, although his timidity sometimes caught up with him whenever he gushed about a book.

This was dangerous, very dangerous. Like water to a plant thirsting for rain.

And as they left the cafe and loitered around the square, Viktor wracking his brain for excuses to keep talking to Katsuki, maybe even ask for his number, the other man beat him to it.

“Erm, Viktor. You know Piter pretty well, right?” Viktor nodded. “Yuu-chan, er, Yuuko, you’ve met her—” a blunt reminder that filled Viktor’s mind with exclamation points “—doesn’t read much in English, so I’ve been having a hard time getting new books. And I prefer to buy them in person rather than having them delivered … so that makes things difficult.”

Viktor tapped a finger against his mouth, thinking if he’d take the risk. “I know a place. A bookshop. Not far from here.”

It was late afternoon by the time they reached _Dolcetto_. A cafe with a good square footage that wasn’t too busy on the weekends, tucked around the corner from Viktor’s building, perfect for when he had nothing better to do but didn’t want to be bothered. The staff knew him by face and most likely by name, but they didn’t try to talk him up, except for that one cashier person who kept on insisting Viktor and he go out for a date sometime.

Katsuki observed each street and shop and sidewalk they passed, taking the neighborhood in. It’s hard not to laugh, the way he almost mimicked Makka nosing about in familiar corners.

“I live near here, actually.”

Viktor slowed his steps. “...so do I. Which building?”

“That apartment block on Pionerskaya?”

That was far too coincidental. “Which floor?”

“What?” Katsuki was taken aback.  
  


“Which floor do you live on?”

“Uh. Seventh?”

“Oh.” This was strange. “I live on eighth.”

“Ah. Oh! That’s uh…” Yuuri scratched the nape of his neck. “Nice? It’s a nice building. I was really lucky that one of Madame Baranovskaya’s dancers leaving for a guest artist stint was looking for a renter. The price isn’t bad either ... ”

It went unsaid, that the building was a middle-aged development, not too depressing like the old Soviet block buildings, with decent floor space for the neighborhood plus a doorman and a lift. It was a little more exclusive than what a dance instructor could afford, but no problem for someone like Viktor.

“I guess we’re neighbors,” said Viktor, feeling the cords of Makka’s leash. She had gone to sniff at a bush of flowers nearby.

They arrived at Dolcetto, the clerk eyeing Yuuri with the face of someone who liked what she saw. At this point, Viktor was going to have to fight people off with a stick if this Yuuko wasn’t around to do it for Yuuri.

But past that, it was easy to get lost in the ambiance—the art from local artists, the shelves arranged by topic, the small displays. He showed Yuuri the English books section as well as the easy Russian books on the second floor.

“They have the bookshop upfront and…” he gestured with a flourish to the view out the window. “...And a cafe at the back where you can read afterward! Isn’t it great?”

A smile slowly overtook Yuuri’s face. It pushed his eyes into sharp lines, the baby fat on his cheeks adding to the overall effect. “Yeah. Thanks for bringing me here.”

The smile knocked on the doors of Viktor’s heart, and it made him braver. “Do you—let’s get dinner after this? After browsing? We are going back in same direction anyway.”

Yuuri blinked, one, two, three times, as Viktor’s pulse ran away from him. Makka sat at their feet, watching his owner swirl into the panic of waiting for an answer from someone he sort of liked.

“Er. Sure. Why not?” Then, the kicker. “Just let me text Yuu-chan first.”

* * *

Once summer began in earnest, it was warm enough that Viktor walked to the rink over two bridges and past a large intersection—it came up in passing and Yuuri, surprisingly, suggested that they walk together during their common route in the mornings.

“It would be nice to talk to someone not in Russian,” he noted woefully. “My English has been getting rusty.”

“What do you use with your Yuu-chan? With Lilia?”

“Japanese. And she’s not _my_ Yuu-chan, please don’t call her that. Anyway. My terrible French, some English, but it’s all mixed in.”

Viktor sat up. “ _Tu parles Français aussi?_ Wow!” How smart was he? A beautiful dancer who read books as much as he did and spoke three languages!

“Eh. _Comme je l’ai dit,_ ” started Yuuri. Then he stopped to think, searching for the words. “ _C’est très mauvais._ ” He butchered the last word and grimaced. “Please don’t make me say more. I can understand but I can’t speak it well.”

Viktor had to stifle his giggle. It wasn’t too terrible, but his accent was atrocious. _“Tu es trop adorable.”_ Katsuki just seemed confused.

Over dinner, Katsuki slowly turned to Yuuri. Even with the little awkward moments, Yuuri and he kept talking. It was fun, surprisingly easy once they found something in common, moving from book to book to literary analysis to another book with ease. Makkachin helped, letting Yuuri pet and snuggle her whenever words didn’t come easily to him.

They made an adorable pair, and it made Viktor’s heart flutter and ache and clutch his proverbial pearls in a squee.

They met again, this time by accident, the second week. After some waffling and discovering that the cafe was unfortunately crowded due to a book signing, they agreed to split a table and late lunch, and sat down to tuck into their books.

Even when the crowd thinned and the tables freed up, Yuuri did not relocate. And at some point in the afternoon, Viktor had the bright idea to order a samovar.

“So pretty,” murmured Yuuri under his breath. Perhaps he didn’t mean for Viktor to catch that, because his cheeks pinkened.

As he took out his phone to take a picture, Viktor tried to edge out of the shot to be polite. But Yuuri gestured for him to stay in his seat. “I need to send proof to Yuu-chan and my teacher that I’ve been making friends.”

Huh. So they were friends?

Viktor would call them mere acquaintances at this point, but it sounded promising. He’d enjoyed himself last weekend. The lessons this week had been lighter too, Katsuki acquiescing to their special requests for choreographic shorts.

“Just don’t tell Lilia, please,” he’d made them promise.

But Viktor couldn’t keep his hold on their time alone together for even three weekends; somehow, Georgi, Mila and Yura had caught wind of their unofficial book club over a samovar at Dolcetto. The next thing he knew, their group had organised an outing to the extended opening hours at the Hermitage that was customary for the White Nights.

Yuu-chan—“Call me Yuuko!” She had chirped, when they’d met today—had come along, after Yuuri had sent a text in very polite Russian asking if it was okay.

It was all good, Viktor thought, as he hung back with Mila. All good to share him; they still had their Sundays, and their morning walks in the cool summer.

He thought he could share.

Up ahead, Yuuri and Georgi argued over which events for White Nights would fit his schedule. Yuuko and Yura brought up the middle, the latter surprisingly less bristly with her than the others.

“I can see you glancing at him.” Mila remarked. “He’s cute. Not your usual type, though?”

“And what’s my usual type, hm? He’s taken.” Viktor wasn’t a homewrecker even if he was, according to one French coach, a bit of a tart.

“That hasn’t stopped other people.” Or the handful of dancers who hung back to speak to him sometimes, cutting into the skaters’ class until Yura glared them off.

“Well. He’s—” Ahead of them, Yuuri laughed at something Georgi said. “—Handsome. Older. Mature. And a fantastic dancer. What else do I say?”

Mila looked at him dubiously. “You need a distraction.”

“As if I have good luck with distractions these days. What if they’re a fan? Or a hockey player who wants to prove something?” Viktor shuddered. He did not mention the leak, or his sabbatical.

“I’m just saying. I know someone, do you want his deets? Then you can decide.”

“Maybe. Why not.”

* * *

**КИНО - ГРУППА КРОВИ**

White Nights proceeded with a little bit of an uptick in activity this year. Yuuri, and of course, Yuuko, came along. Georgi was ecstatic, all flowery exultations about the magic of love. Mila was texting all these ideas for events they could go to. Yura was grumbly as always, saying _fine, she‘s not terrible_.

Viktor expected it, but not the disquiet in his stomach as he read the texts in their new group chat.

 _Are you free on the 30th_ , his fingers typed. A few minutes later, and Ilya, Mila’s cousin who was in university, replied. _Da_.

They watched the fireworks and the entry of the red sailed ships onto the bay, Yuuri and Yuuko open-mouthed in wonder. They took turns taking photos, the size difference and contrast in personalities between the couple cute and sweet.

It almost made Viktor want to gag. Another part of him was envious, but only Makka knew that. The Japanese couple talked to each other with a friendly familiarity he sometimes wished for himself. Like they had known each other for a long time, and their relationship was the culmination of years of friendship.

Perhaps it was. It was none of Viktor’s business, anyhow.

There were concerts the next two weeks, and on days when they could beg off from early morning skates, they bought canned coffee or beer or cheap wine and snacks, and talked it out in the benches after the music was over and the stage crew were shutting everything down.

Ilya was, at least, a fun companion and a good distraction—they both knew it wasn’t serious, would never be serious, but both of them were good enough with the summer. The eyefucking over dinner had been fun, a little spice to his day while Yuuri and Yuuko were being sickeningly sweet next to him. A much better option than Georgi, whom Viktor sometimes seriously considered after one too many glasses.

It had happened once. That time he’d crossdressed as a girl to accompany Georgi at his cousin’s party, after winning the Olympics … the strange, helpless attractions afterwards that thrilled and confused him in turns. That seemed to be the theme the last few years—bewildering attractions to men who wanted him, who came, who left.

The height of summer came in August. His body sometimes couldn’t make up its mind whether to fight or to fuck—the aftereffects of being an athlete relearning the strains of high performance, as he knew from his time at the sports academy. This caused him to better define his sabbatical, as he began to realize the sex toys were rarely as satisfying as a real person.

The rules were simple. Casual sex but no strangers, absolutely no kissing and telling, and most of all no feelings—just the blunt physical pleasure of fucking.

Of course, it helped that Mila would skin and roast Ilya alive if he screwed with Viktor in any shape or form. She was loyal like that.

And so Viktor came, loose-limbed, on some evenings, little breathy moans and tongue searching Ilya’s mouth, rubbing against one another. Post-fuck, he’d inspect himself in the mirror. His eyes and skin would look bright, although his expression remained neutral. Sex seemed to be the cure; he was getting back each jump and each glide, step by exhausting step. Yakov still yelled, but he couldn’t deny that Viktor was producing results again.

Or was it the unofficial book club and the lure of his handsome neighbor? On some days when Ilya slept over, he’d shoo him out of his apartment at an early hour. Then he’d shower and primp till he felt ready to head down to the seventh floor with Makka in tow.

Luckily, no one saw him whisper a pep talk to himself before he rang the doorbell and waited to bid Yuuri good morning and start their walk at a comfortable 8AM in the sunshine. Or at least, no one said anything.

They’d talk until after the second bridge and then part ways at the crosswalk. Books were always a constant topic, when Yuuri wasn’t gushing about some new trick he’d tried with Yuuko at the studio and showing him the pictures.

Viktor wondered, as he walked the rest of the way to Yubileyniy. If he’d been a girl and maybe even a little older, Yuuri might have liked him better. Maybe he would have even made a move.

Maybe … he was actually straight?

He remembered that night in the club. That searingly hot kiss. The sight of another man pressed against Yuuri.

Had that been a blip because of the alcohol? Likely not, but he’d probably also friendzoned himself to hell with the dance classes, the walks to work, the books, and the steam of the samovar on Sundays.

Who knew, really.

But as an experiment, just a tiny, tiny one that wasn’t difficult to execute—he had three hours before the agreed upon meeting time at the train station. The skaters had gotten off earlier, but Yuuri was still stuck in the studio.

So he made himself pretty—darkened his lashes, put on a little lipstick and eyeshadow, fluffed up his hair. All the subtle tricks he’d used on Georgi and a few others, and had honed his skills in. If anything, it helped with his make-up for competitions.

The _piece de resistance_ was a green, airy dress embroidered at the hem and paired with a light coat; he could even pass for a fit girl with a small chest. There were girls like that at the rink, so it wasn’t too far-fetched. After all, Marya had a terribly flat chest; he could, at a glance, be the taller, bonier sister of Marya.

Except for when one looked too hard at his jaw line or tried to lift him. Then they’d find he was more muscle than womanly fat.

He certainly didn’t appear like a woman when he was in practice clothes, huffing and puffing away at the precision of skating. He wasn’t the bulkiest of skaters, either—something in his height and genetics made his form perfect for jumping triples and the easiest quad without the necessity of bulking up, though he suspected that would change with his attempts at the flip.

So it was like putting on a costume; he’d inspected himself in the mirror before leaving, admiring the way the skirt swished around his legs, how the slight flounce in the hips hid their narrowness, and how the boots went well with his entire outfit. He even made a few notes on changing the way he moved and sat and walked.

Perhaps that was what caught Yuuri’s eyes as they met in the train station. Viktor smiled at them brightly, waving as he approached them.

Georgi coughed, eyeing him with suspicion, then recognition. “Oh.” He swallowed. “You, uh. Look really nice.” His cheeks pinkened, as if remembering the last time he’d seen Viktor like this.

Yuuri remained silent, eyes wide, until a stray nudge from Georgi jolted him into eking out, “Yeah! You, uh, really dressed up.”

Well. That was a reaction, if perhaps not the one Viktor wanted.

Mila, Ivan and Marya met them at the venue itself, a rock concert for a band that all of them roughly knew and that Yuuri had been introduced to just last week. Mila whistled. “Nice one, Vitya. I’d be scared if I wasn’t your friend.”

He preened at that, before she turned to Yuuri and ruined it by asking, “Yuuko’s joining, right? Does she know where we are?”

Yuuri shrugged. “She can’t make it. She’s off with her colleagues from the theatre today.”

Viktor cocked his head—trouble in paradise?

He pushed those thoughts aside in favor of the music, a cup of wine in his hand. The opening act was passable except for the one song that sounded like a yowling cat in heat. They insisted to Yuuri, as a group, that Piter had better musicians than this. The quality, at least, got better and better as the clock ticked towards midnight—then the local Kino homage group came out with their mullets and leather jackets, and the crowd collectively screamed.

“My mama named me after original band’s lead singer!” Viktor yelled at Yuuri. He was holding onto the other man’s arm as the crowd pushed and swayed in an attempt to get closer to the stage, bringing their small group along with it.

“Oh? Have I heard of him?” Yuuri yelled back.

“No, don’t think so. He was Viktor Tsoi! Korean singer!”

Yuuri would have replied, if not for a sudden push at Viktor’s side. He almost fell onto Yuuri, splashing a bit of his wine on his coat. A hand reached out to keep him steady, grasping at the side of his waist.

If the palm had been a few more inches further, Viktor would have been in trouble. Their sides pressed up against one another, enough that he could feel the muscle of Yuuri’s torso, could see where the other man had a little wound where he’d nicked himself from shaving his jaw.

He could even smell Yuuri, the scent of his detergent present underneath the blend of cigarette smoke, alcohol, mud, and the unique tang of Piter at night.

They were very close. Viktor watched his lips.

“Are you okay?”

It was barely audible in the growing fervor of the crowd around them. Ahead, Georgi and Mila are angling to get a better spot, and Viktor shook himself mentally before before motioning that they should follow. Yuuri let go; Viktor ached at the loss of contact.

There was no time to really think, not when the first few strums of a guitar filled the air. The lyrics were all in Russian; between beats, Viktor poured the meanings of lyrics into Yuuri’s ear. It was all fantastic, and sometimes they held onto one another, along with Georgi and Mila, overwhelmed by the music and the atmosphere.

Their group parted ways at close to 2am, a few stragglers stopping to look at Viktor funny. He ignored them. Yuuri, on the other hand, kept glancing over. Seeing him, as if for the first time.

Finally, something was happening.

Yuuri kept glancing over, especially when he thought Viktor wouldn’t notice. On their walk back, they took their time at the last bridge, admiring the twinkling lights of the pier on the other side of the Neva.

A boat honked its horn over towards the far end of the mouth of the river. The sound was carried over to where they stood, and it raised goosebumps on Viktor’s exposed neck.

Their hands touched at one point, laying themselves on the same part of the railing—

They both pulled back at once, as if burned.

“That was colder than I expected,” said Yuuri. His hand clenched and unclenched into a fist.

“Yeah, it’s usually not that cold this time of year, maybe it’s climate change?” said Viktor. A bald-faced lie. The skin on his palm tingled.

“If you, a Russian, are saying that, then maybe I should be really worried.”

“It never got this cold in London?”

“No. Okay, maybe when it rained I’d sometimes freeze my face off. But I’ll need to go shopping for a new coat sometime soon, based on what you’ve told me about the temperatures.”

“I’ll come with you! If Yuuko isn’t free, that is. That stain won’t wash out. And the other one you have is blindingly ugly.”

“It’s not ugly!” Yuuri squawked. “It’s practical! And machine-washable! This coat was the first thing I ever got with my salary, it’s seen me through so much rain and snow –”

“And it’s ugly,” laughed Viktor. “You can have more than two coats. It won’t hurt you.”

“Fine,” said Yuuri, a little sulkily. “Fine, but we have to set some rules. I don’t want to look silly. I like wearing blue a lot. It should work for a variety of weather.”

“ _Da_! Don’t worry, you’re in good hands.”

The other man snorted, incredulous. “We’ll see about that.”

And because Viktor’s tongue was a traitor, faster than his brain sometimes—“Honestly, I’d almost take back our friendship just because of that coat.”

“Huh, except that … ?” asked Yuuri, playing along.

“Except you’re my friend! If only I didn’t like you so much. Who else can I talk to about Chekhov and Murakami? My confusion at David Foster Wallace?”

Yuuri’s gaze grew soft. His dimples came into view.

Viktor’s heart gave an almost painful thump.

The other man sighed. But was it a sigh of defeat? Contentment? Happiness? Maybe the last two, with the way his eyes twinkled as he held Viktor’s gaze and said in a voice that made Viktor squeal internally — “Yeah. I’m lucky you like me so much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of a Vaganova student: https://www.dancespirit.com/inside_the_vaganova_academy-2326044100.html
> 
> References for Vitya's dildo: https://www.glassbywoozy.com/listing/523288455/glass-dildo-pink-red-sparkle but maybe thicker? And tentacle-like such as https://www.passionshop.com/Icicles-PD2924-00.html 
> 
> How I think Yuuri might look like in this fic, which is where I got the dimples and crinkly eyes from:  
> Serious - https://coffingrover.tumblr.com/post/165176568225  
> Smiling - https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/555631672756920711/
> 
> The ice cream stores I referenced: https://www.tripadvisor.com.sg/Restaurant_Review-g298507-d12912708-Reviews-Pud_Hleba_Popio_IceCream-St_Petersburg_Northwestern_District.html?m=19905 and https://www.tripadvisor.com.sg/Restaurant_Review-g298507-d8500727-Reviews-Mickey_Monkeys-St_Petersburg_Northwestern_District.html?m=19905
> 
> The Caterpillar from ROH's Alice in Wonderland or Yuuri's previous company in this fic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gOiK2G88sbw
> 
> I've never actually seen the ballet for Raven Girl, but I do know that it involves aerial hoop choreography, mechanical wings and that you can try imagining Yuuri in the place of Ryoichi Hirano here with his strong lifts and beautiful technicals: https://youtu.be/toBG-y3RweE
> 
> White Nights are a big thing in St. Petersburg because from June to August the sun doesn't go below the horizon, and we take part in these festivities as well in the next chapter: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Nights_Festival
> 
> Kino was a very famous Soviet band with the Korean immigrant Viktor Tsoi as their lead singer: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kino_(band)
> 
> Here's the song I used as reference: https://youtu.be/6i7zxpbOcaI
> 
> I love comments! I also love questions, I gobble them up like cookies! 
> 
> As to whether the question of Yuuri's disappearing act from ch1 ever gets addressed ... you'll find out next week.


	3. each other’s muses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> White Nights continue. Viktor tries to keep his feelings in check. Unfortunately, his crush comes back in full force. 
> 
> What’s even worse – he’s clearly taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! Real life hit hard this week for both me and Nikki, so uh... it's still Sunday somewhere in the world? Have some more of Viktor learning to be an adult with a crush on his friend.
> 
> Some fast facts:
> 
> I got most of my ideas from this article that gives a general idea of festivities during White Nights - https://www.lonelyplanet.com/articles/white-nights-and-warm-days-summer-in-st-petersburg
> 
> Personally I'm not super big on Wayne McGregor but he does talk in an interesting way, and for sure Yuuri would have worked with him as a first soloist – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KPPxXeoIzRY&ab_channel=TED
> 
> (Btw there is no sex in this chapter hahaha just friendship and UST)

**Mockingbird - Uma**

The opening of the Peterhof fountain had heralded the beginning of extended museum hours. Since he’d turned 14, and neither Lilia nor Yakov could be bothered to check in on him amidst their growing obligations, Viktor had taken advantage of them every year like clockwork, to find inspiration. Their rotating cast of visiting exhibits had been ample fodder for his active imagination.

This year, they were also a convenient excuse to spend time with Yuuri. Did he truly have this much free time on his hands? Viktor didn’t, not really, but that just meant less time hunting for new books to read or movies to watch, becoming more efficient with his chores, less time watching soap operas and more time talking to Yuuri. 

Definitely less time feeling sorry for himself when things didn’t go his way at the rink.

They were texting now, and it had started out awkwardly with a quick 👋 or polite messages to arrange in-person meetings that Viktor initially didn’t know how to turn into a conversation. 

Makkachin was the key; she’d been particularly cute one evening on their walk and he thought Yuuri might appreciate her cuteness as well. His response? An enthusiastic _🐩!!! how is she so perfect?_ And that had started the full sentences accompanying a volley of puppy videos and comparisons about dog breeds that lasted well into the night and made Viktor sleep past his alarm the next morning. But he floated through that day on the high of a good conversation, the kind that opened more doors to getting to know Yuuri.

So they went with this back and forth about things either of them thought the other might appreciate—sentences in books Viktor loved, little silly things Yuuri’s students did; music; the best places in Piter to find coffee or people watch.

It grew lovelier and lovelier, even if Yuuri still occasionally balked at Viktor’s ‘excessive use of emojis.’ Despite that, he was surprisingly more forthcoming over text. All it meant was that Viktor could plan a trip out that was conveniently just the two of them, after much casual snooping about Yuuri’s schedule.

“Which museums have you been to?” Viktor asked, as they waited in line to purchase tickets. The crowd was sparse on a Tuesday, the only night Yuuri had free from pole classes or the start of rehearsals for the higher years. Up ahead, a gaggle of teenagers whooped as they huddled over a video game. Yuuri glanced over them with amusement.

“A few. Living in London made it pretty easy. And maybe one or two every time we toured...” The line moved forward, and soon it was their turn.

Conversation picked up again after getting their tickets checked by the docent. “What do you mean, living in London made it pretty easy?” Viktor repeated. 

“All the bigger museums in London were free,” said Yuuri, as he dropped his ticket in his pants pocket. His arm swung loosely by his side. It bumped into Viktor’s, a slight touch that made him screech internally. 

He had to restrain himself from making sure they bumped again. 

“So when there was nothing better to do or I just wanted some quiet, I’d go over to the Tate or the Victoria and Albert,” Yuuri added. “Not many people there on the weekdays. And our apartment was just ten minutes away by walking.” 

“How lucky! Do you like modern art or classics more? I have a soft spot for Peredvizhniki. Group of realists called the wanderers, they have many works displayed here. And some other artists from other former Soviet countries. I can point them out later.”

Their route brought them into a great hall and up a central staircase made of marble. They stopped talking, taking their time to sightsee, until they reached the first room and encountered one such painting.

“They loved painting farmers, countryside, and landscapes. Makes me wish I could see it all with my own eyes.”

Yuuri scrunched his brow, as if thinking hard about it. “To be honest, I don’t really have a preference. So long as it stirs something in me, I don’t care about the genre.”

They made their way through the Arkhipovs and the Repins, Viktor trying to rein in his desire to tell Yuuri far too many stories about each work he remembered from when he was still at the academy. With every painting that struck a chord, Yuuri would stop and look, taking the colors and the strokes in. He’d even walk to the back of the room just to see the painting in its entirety. 

Such was the magic of the Hermitage, Viktor supposed. It rendered Yuuri quiet and thoughtful. Surprisingly, it was nice. No words needed, just the quiet of looking at beautiful works of art.

Maybe that included Yuuri, but Viktor kept that to himself.

In the next room, there was a painting on loan from the Belarusian Art Museum that Viktor had only ever seen on Wikipedia. He gasped upon recognising it.

“Smiling Girl! By Arkhipov!” He couldn’t help but bubble up at the red and pink strokes depicting her shawl, the chubby cheeks, the shape of her. “I didn’t know they had it on loan! Wow, Yuuri, we’re really lucky.”

“Huh,” said Yuuri, peering up at it. “You’re right. You know… it kind of looks like Yuuko, don’t you think?”

“Yes, uh. Right,” Viktor squinted. “If she gained about 10 kilos and suddenly desired to cover herself up.”

A surprised laugh erupted from Yuuri, making Viktor jump in the quiet of the room. An older couple shot dubious glances at them, but Viktor couldn’t find it in himself to care from the way Yuuri kept laughing.

“I won’t tell her you said that,” he gasped out between laughs. “Seriously, 10 kilos …”

“And if she decided to wear more clothes,” Viktor added.

Yuuri snickered. “It’s a pole dance thing. Give it till winter.”

Till winter? As Yuuri walked away to read the curator’s card, Viktor drooped a little. 

Till winter, with this terrible not-crush that had just grown five sizes upon discovering Yuuri could talk about things Viktor liked, and could also talk about things Viktor didn’t care for, like video games, without being an ass about it. 

Not like Danyl had been once they’d started dating, talking as if Viktor knew nothing.

Yuuri would at least listen while Viktor gushed about his rereading of the Lady with the Pet Dog, then offer his own opinions. They’d spent an hour last week after class breaking down Maya Plisetskaya’s performance of Bolero—Viktor didn’t even notice the time fly by. Yuuri didn’t make fun of Viktor for cooing over Makkachin, or of his thousands of photos of her. 

In fact, he even encouraged it! But he’d yet to mention more about his own dog. Or clammed up when Viktor asked. 

Strange.

* * *

**How Deep is Your Love - Supreme Beings of Leisure Remix, BeeGees**

Supposedly, all this exposure should have made Viktor immune to his charms. That was worst of all—although they saw each other close to five times a week, it remained difficult to look away from Yuuri as he moved. The grace that professional dancers wore like a second skin echoed in his every step and gesture. Unlike skaters who sometimes tripped on their own feet in confusion from the lack of glide on solid ground. 

And Viktor loved beautiful things, seeked to possess them for himself and infuse them into his own performance. It did not help that Yuuri was beautiful, and that his face grew more expressive as he became comfortable talking to him.

A month of this, and Viktor was having a hard time sticking to his sabbatical. But the presence of Yuuko, with her big chest, bright smile and flexible hips, reined him in. Like today.

It wasn’t even her fault, or a bad case of fastest fingers first. Conversations preceding the small hours of the night, as they brought Yuuri and Yuuko to Dumskaya to drink at each of its four famous bars, brought forth the fact that the two of them had grown up together, then grown apart as Yuuko had given up ballet for the world of costume design and theatre, and Yuuri had left for Piter on the one-year Chaucotte scholarship at the Vaganova.

“So that’s why you know Lilia!” Viktor exclaimed. “And Katerina Mikhailovina, and Galina Ulanova, and…” 

At the other end of their table on the terrace—easily won after Viktor and Mila had combined forces to flirt with the waiter—Georgi and Yuuko discussed fabrics and weights and cuts and something about Pan’s Labyrinth. Mila looked bored, texting on her phone from time to time. 

An easy wind blew through, making goosebumps pop up on the nape of his neck. 

Yuuri shrugged over his beer. “Just the eighth year teachers. After that, I left for Switzerland. Then London.” He looked over at her, with her wild hand gestures and ecstatic tones. “We had the same teacher growing up but it’s harder on the girls, definitely. She told me that’s why she left.”

“Oh,” said Viktor, before taking a sip of his glass. “Then how….”

“Hmm? How what?”

“Have you been together all this time? Or were the two of you—” he gestured back and forth in the space between them “—recent?” 

Inquiring minds wanted to know. Or mostly Viktor, because he wanted to know how to even obtain a hint of the ease between the two in his own future attempts at a relationship.

“Oh. Erm.” Was Yuuri blushing? If so, he looked even more adorable in the half-sunset of the White Nights, how the blood painted the apples of his cheeks pink. “We, uhm—it was sort of an accident?” He squeaked. “She found out I was coming here and she’d been apprenticing at this particular company—”

The long story short—or Yuuri’s stammering pieces combined—was that their current relationship had been the product of a childhood friendship-turned-romance as the ice floes floated down the Neva. Something they both fell into by accident.

Viktor sighed. 

Hopefully Yuuri would interpret that as him finding it romantic, rather than his own despair at the situation because the only person he knew like that was Georgi and he even didn’t like him _that_ way on a good day.

“And, uh, she said, let’s try things out, and we … well. Er. It’s nothing too serious,” said Yuuri, half to himself. 

His look at her said otherwise. 

The hope Viktor had been keeping in his heart began to wither. He didn’t even know it still existed until this very moment. 

“We just enjoy each other’s company. Thought we’d see how it would go.” Yuuri smiled, more to himself. “So far it’s been good.”

Something about the alcohol and the atmosphere made his tongue a little looser. “I used to like her when I was younger. I never thought she’d look at me.” 

In contrast, he looked at her like she was some kind of Madonna, someone he couldn’t hope to catch up to.

The condensation of Viktor’s drink dropped onto his fingers as he watched Yuuri watching Yuuko, whose hands flailed in a dramatic impression of how fabric could be draped to produce some effect. The words and voices around him faded into noise.

He couldn’t get in between that. Sure, his crush metastasized with every little thing Yuuri seemed to do, and he was pretty sure the other man liked what he saw when he looked at Viktor, but … what if Georgi was right and theirs was a true love, the kind that seemed impossible with every attempt Viktor clawed at, and possible for everyone else? 

But more than the envy, more than the growing crush for someone unavailable—how he wished someone would look at him like that someday. 

Mila, wonderful Milochka, noticed how he’d quieted and elbowed him. It hurt! There was barely any body fat to protect himself. She leaned in to whisper, “I thought you were on a sabbatical? Was Ilya not enough distraction? Should I call him over?”

Viktor took a gulp out of his drink. “I don’t want to talk about this now. Or here,” he admitted. “Can we find a club? I don’t want to bring anyone home, I just want to dance.”

Mila raised an eyebrow. “Including the happy couple?”

“I suppose,” shrugged Viktor with a nonchalance he did not feel. His hands felt cold from the drink, and his skin cold from thinking about the hole he’d dug for himself, liking someone impossible. “If they want to.”

Maybe dancing would bleed his attraction away. It had helped before, with Danyl.

They found themselves walking along Razyezzhaya, waiting in line to get into Dom Beat. The techno and the bass thrum from the club echoed into the hallway. None of them were quite properly dressed for it. 

“If I’d known you wanted to go dance, I would have worn heels instead of boots, Vitya!” Mila chided. “Look at us, we are like children trying to get into grown-ups’ party.” 

Georgi surprisingly came to the rescue. The bouncer was a fan. “Loved your free program to Yowling Cat,” he added, letting them through. “You go enjoy yourselves.”

All this, Viktor knew. He and Chris had made a trip last year to Paris after a training camp, to celebrate Viktor being back on the market. The French Techno vibe, the flashing lights and the crowded room full of adults dressed to the nines on a Friday evening—it was the same here, in Paris, in Tokyo, in Metropol months ago ...

At least here he could ignore the strange feeling that had begun since that last drink at the bar and Yuuri’s long look at Yuuko. Here, there was nothing but the music, the pulsing beat he could feel in his bones, as he and Mila shimmied and moved their way through the crowd. Georgi followed close behind, along with the happy couple.

They formed their own little corner mosh pit, taking turns to show off in twos, until it came to Yuuri and Viktor. It was hard not to groan, because this was exactly what Viktor had been avoiding. But he’d survive. Mostly.

That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Increase exposure to the happy couple until it didn’t bother him anymore. 

And so their dance duel kicked off as the music changed genre.

The crowd surged. 

Retro Disco Night had begun. 

The music, although the lyrics were muffled by the wave of voices and bodies, spoke what Viktor was thinking—until Yuuri cut into his line of sight, coming closer until he was all Viktor could see.

“Can you Cha Cha?” He spoke into Viktor’s ear. His breath on the skin of the shell of it made him shiver, and Viktor remembered Metropol even as he was trying to forget it with all his might.

Was that Yuuri’s game? Rile Viktor up? But his girlfriend was right there.

“In a techno club?” Viktor asked. “The beat’s off!”

Yuuri smirked, seemingly buoyed by the alcohol and the club and the presence of his longtime romantic aspiration. The strobe lights turned his expression feral. “It’s there. You just need to listen for it. Unless you’re scared of making a fool of yourself?”

“Yuuri, go easy on him!” Called out Yuuko, laughing. “Not everyone can dance like you.”

Not everyone, but Viktor would attempt to because he still remembered Metropol, even if Yuuri never talked about it. So he’d make him remember. Maybe they’d clear things up, and Viktor would let the happy couple be sweet to each other, and he’d be Yuuri’s friend.

Another possibility—maybe Yuuri would be so riled up that they’d kiss again in the corridor and Yuuri would leave Yuuko. 

But Viktor wasn’t betting any money on that, especially when he’d been the one stupid enough to ask to go to a club. That was what had started this whole mess in the first place!

“I can do it!” Viktor fired back. “I’ll do it, come on.”

“Alright,” Yuuri called out. He moved into Viktor’s space, offering a hand. “May I have this dance?”

He took it. It felt so warm against his own palm, steady and sure yet not crushingly tight.

Another hand placed itself on his waist.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Viktor quipped.

Yuuri pulled him close. Viktor’s breath caught. His thoughts knocked about like stones in a tin can in his head. 

What! Was this much contact even necessary? Not that Viktor was complaining, but still … the hand on the small of his back burned through his shirt. Yuuri’s body ran warm, and they’d both worn thin fabrics to cope with the summer evening, and—

Suddenly there was no time to think of anything else, as the hand on his back led him into a Cha Cha. Viktor could do nothing but blindly follow and add his own little flair as Yuuri spun him, as he passed him from hand to hand to dance around him. Their group cheered them on as he extended a leg and let the other man move him around in five count steps, his legs cramping from trying to keep up with the beat, with Yuuri’s mischief.

Bumping into other people was inevitable. Yet Viktor couldn’t find it in him to say sorry, not when it cleared space on the floor for them. Not when he was having so much fun! 

Yuuri was smiling too, but beyond that there was a steely glint in his eye, calculating the next move and where to send Viktor next.

There was no room to talk, either, to tease him how this was “just like last time!” Segment after segment followed, as he and Yuuri parted and came back together, copying each other.

It ended far too soon, and Viktor was breathless and smiling, his hair coming loose in messy sweaty tendrils and his skin feeling all tingly. 

On the other hand, Yuuri was barely panting, his face right in front of him, lit by the strobe lights, with lips parted and wet from saliva. So close that Viktor could just about lean in and recreate that searingly hot kiss … 

“That was amazing!” Yuuko cut in. “Yuuri-kun, looks like we found your match!”

Oops. 

They jumped away from each other, Yuuri letting go of his hold on him. The place at the small of his back where Yuuri’s hand had been tingled. Viktor wouldn't have been surprised if there was a mark on the skin later. 

And the hand that had held his—it went down about the same time as Viktor taking a step back, smiling and trying to gush about their dance. But his throat felt too dry. His heart pounded too quickly for him to muster anything vaguely coherent. 

Instead, he blurted out, “That was fun! But I need a drink! I’ll find you guys later!” 

And then he left—not to the bar, but to the washroom nestled into a corner, the combined smells of alcohol, puke, piss and bleach leading the way. 

Finding a free stall that didn’t smell like death was a stroke of luck. He slammed the door in his haste, pulling the seat down and planting his butt onto it.

 _Pizdets!_ The sabbatical was there for a reason, even if Viktor was shit sometimes at following it. He didn’t need the distractions, the inevitable hurt of disappointment when Yuuri let him down, gently. How would their growing friendship even survive his feelings?

Viktor slapped at his cheeks, trying to beat some sense into himself. He had no answers for that question. So here he was crossing his wires, making everything worse for himself, wanting someone who was clearly happy in their relationship. 

Noise came from the stall next to his—the sound of a belt unbuckling. A zipper being pulled open.

Yuuri, wonderful, darling Yuuri, with the small sarcastic remarks about books he disliked and the ability to ride along with Viktor’s obsessions and comments—out of the question! 

He had Yuuko. Their relationship was so good that Yuuko didn’t even see Viktor as an intruder into their relationship, clearly. She even cheered them on!

“Why am I so bad at this,” wondered Viktor, his head in his hands. “The moment I decide to swear off men, the perfect one comes along…”

He was so lost in his panic that he almost didn’t notice that a guest had joined him in his stall—a dark-red-skinned guest, with copious veins running and down the shaft and a bulbous head, the girth fatter than his own when erect. 

He blinked, unbelieving. Then he stared. Nowhere in the Yelp review had it said that there was a gloryhole at Dom Beat. 

How strange. 

Was this the ‘similar energy’ the Discovery of the Sacred Sensual Self had talked about? Of course, he wasn’t dumb—but still, he was curious about how this might work, and he didn’t want to think so much but rather do something he knew very well how to do.

But was this a distraction? A step in the wrong direction?

Maybe the books and the personality had been the real distraction, making him want Yuuri so thoroughly for more than just friendship. If it was sex Viktor wanted, then he reasoned: the body, the cock, the owner shouldn’t matter. 

If it was love, that was clearly off the table for him. 

And this cock in a gloryhole was pure anonymity. No names, no thanks, no praise. Even better—no one would ever know it was his mouth, his tongue, his throat they were jerking off into.

So Viktor leaned in. 

His nostrils picked up on the light scent of sweat as he came closer to it, inspecting the erection. Objectively, it was a near perfect specimen, and despite his sabbatical Viktor wasn’t blind ...

He moved his head in even closer, enough that his breath dampened the tip. Curious, he let out a slow puff of warm air. 

A moan came, deep and throaty.

Then his neighbor had the wonderful idea to thrust powerfully into the hole as if to reach for Viktor’s lips just as he’d tilted his head to look at it better—almost stabbing him in the eye.

Viktor yelped.

Surprise made him fall off the toilet seat, landing on the disgusting floor of the bathroom. His head banged against the other stall door. It made more noise than it hurt, but the motion shocked him awake, made him realise _what the hell was he even thinking?_

Wasn’t the whole point of this sabbatical stopping himself from getting hurt? And yet here he was again, in an awkward situation because of a delicious-looking penis. 

His palms stung from the force of catching himself on the toilet seat and the stall lock. The erection in the hole bobbed, the other man waiting for a mouth or a hand.

Bad habits were surprisingly hard to kill. But even Viktor, for all his openness to new experiences, realised he did not want to accidentally catch something by sucking someone off in a dirty bathroom. He got up slowly, wiping his hands on his jeans and leaned against the other end of the stall. For good measure, he ran his palms against the wood, checking to see if there were any holes there and only coming up with dirt and grime against his skin.

Like a bad joke, the cock remained erect, poking out from the hole in the stall. A minute passed before his neighbor gave up, pulling their dick back and buckling their trousers as they grumbled and cursed.

On their way out, his neighbour knocked harshly against the door to Viktor’s stall. He waited for the slam of the bathroom door to echo against the walls before coming out. 

His hands shook as he washed them, as he pushed against the door and found himself in the hallway smelling of piss, puke and bleach again. 

He considered walking back to the dance floor directly, apologising to the others for taking so long. He could also go to the bar first and buy a stiff drink, then down it in one go before having to face the happy couple again. 

The third option: he could go home and text everyone a lie that he’d either found someone to bring back or felt too tired to keep dancing. But then if he said the first one then Mila would grill him, and then Yuuri might think less of him, and Georgi would just shake his head … 

Thinking about this made Viktor feel terribly exhausted. All he wanted was to go home, take a good shower and fall into bed and a deep sleep ...

There was a soft touch to his shoulder and a voice he recognised. “Viktor, there you are! Are you alright? We were wondering where you went.”

He turned around to face them. 

Just his luck, the fly in his ointment.

Viktor tried to plaster a smile onto his face but his muscles wouldn’t work quite right. A grimace came out instead. “Oh, I’m fine. Was about to head back! Just had bit of scare in the toilet.”

“Oh no!” She gasped. “Did someone hurt you? Are they still in there?”

“No, nothing like that, Yuuko,” Viktor interjected. “Just me being silly.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she offered. “Or do you want a hug?” 

The bad lighting in the hallway made her skin a little sallow and dulled her brown hair. Nonetheless, she radiated a desire to be helpful and her expression was so earnest that it balanced things out, made her seemingly glow.

Height-wise, Yuuko barely reached his shoulder, and yet here she was offering him comfort. She could be doing it to be polite, but she’d been nothing but cheerful and welcoming and engaging the whole time she’d hung out with them.

How could Viktor even begin to think he could come between her and Yuuri?

“Hug would be nice,” he murmured, ashamed of himself. “If you don’t mind.” 

At that, she offered her arms, before thinking better of it and just pouncing on him. She even patted his back, which must have been icky with dried sweat. But Yuuko didn’t seem to mind. 

He let himself sigh into her and breathe in the smell of her detergent, the smoke and smells from the bar and the club. Let himself lean into it even if it was awkward because her chest was very big and very soft and he wasn’t sure about how to hug back without being called a pervert. 

When was the last time he’d hugged someone, anyway? Perhaps the most recent one without any pretense to anything else was almost eight months ago with Yakov at Euros. Maybe Makka when he went to sleep.

“If you want … You can talk to me or Yuuri about it later,” she said. “When you feel like it. No pressure. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“Why are you being nice to me?” wondered Viktor. Then he realised he’d said it out loud. 

Yuuko laughed in amusement, the peals travelling through her small body.

She pulled back and smiled at him, her hands around his shoulders. “Honestly? You looked like you needed it. Besides, you’re Yuuri’s friend, and you’ve been nothing but kind to him and me the whole time. Which means you’re my friend too.”

Viktor arched an eyebrow. Really? That easily? 

Did she not sense that he was, until tonight, somehow out to steal her boyfriend?

“Yes, really! Think of this as a small thanks for—” her expression turned wistful “—being such a good friend to him, at the very least. Doing what the rest of us couldn’t. 

“You’ve inspired him to start to—what’s the word ... Explore? Get out of his shell?”

At Viktor’s confused expression, she continued. “The past month, he’s been dancing more again. Not just for staying fit like for pole or for work. But choreographing, making new things, experimenting.” 

Yuuko giggled. “Because you inspired him!”

Viktor didn’t quite know what to say to that. And the messenger was the last person he’d expected to tell him. 

“Erm. Yuuko. What do you mean, exactly? Was it ... book club? Makkachin?” He tried to come up with other possibilities. “White Nights? The museum?” He shrugged. “That’s just hospitality. He’s a good teacher.” Well, that was one of the reasons why...

Yuuko quirked her head, before letting out another laugh. “No, silly! I’m talking about your performances, your—what do you call it, your skates. Your programmes?” 

Viktor nodded. 

“I’ve only been with him the last few months but it’s … it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him this fired up. Like he wants to hold on to something in your performances and bring them into his own.”

Every new bit of information made Viktor want to jump out of his skin. When had Yuuri found the time to watch his performances? Oh god, did that mean he’d found the exhibition where he’d dressed up as Sailor Moon? His long programme to Enya? 

He’d definitely found the River Dance programme from 2014, because that was what got him his gold medal.

There was no time to panic, because Yuuko expected a reply. “That’s … wow. That’s really flattering, Yuuko. But, uh,” Viktor rambled, “It’s nice to be complimented and all, but uhm, I feel a little awkward talking about this in front of a stinky bathroom … but thank you. Uhm. For the hug. For offering to listen. For telling me about Yuuri.”

“My offer still stands, ok? And don’t mention it.” She pulled him into a quick hug that almost pressed all the air out of him. “Seriously, don’t mention it to him though, he’ll just fall over himself and be embarrassed. Yuuri’s like that.”

“Yeah, he’s … like that.” Viktor agreed. “You seem to know him really well.”

She took a step back, letting go of his shoulders. “Mmhmm. To a point. We grew up in the same town together. We had the same ballet teacher. But you,” she tapped him on the chest. “He thinks of you as a friend too. So thank you for being a friend to him.

“It takes him a while to open up to new people, I’d noticed,” she added, as they made their way back into the club. And while waiting for drinks at the bar. “The other instructors at the studio try to make friends with him, but he doesn’t really bite. Which makes things difficult …” She drifted off. “It takes two people to make friendships work, you know?”

Of course Viktor knew. Watching his own meager friendships drift off after graduation, seeing how his parents never seemed to quite fit one another and decided they were better off apart. If he thought long and hard about it, Yuuri was one of the few people who made that statement true, like Chris and Mila, and Georgi on a good day. But more.

And now here was his girlfriend feeding him information. He should be nicer to her.

“Yuuko, how about we…” Viktor could see their group in the corner, Georgi, Mila and Yuuri moving to the beat. Young and beautiful, and the few people he could call his friends. It made the decision a little easier. “Yuuko, let’s go back and dance.”

His phone beeped in his pocket. An alarm. “Wait. Scratch that.”

Unfortunately, Piter’s bridges and their schedules didn’t keep pace with the rest of the city’s desire to party and stay out late but still find their way back home before 5am. Most trains closed at half past midnight, almost an hour ago. 

And the shuttle metro between just the two stations for people who got trapped on the wrong island? In the wrong direction. They had no recourse but to walk.

And so, they rushed out of the club, trying to find the quickest ways back before the bridges stranded them on the wrong island. Their group splintered in different directions—Georgi walked away after a quick hug, and Mila and Yuuko took a cab to be safe, living in the opposite direction from Viktor and Yuuri. 

She and Yuuri took their time parting ways through the rolled-down car window, Viktor waiting on the sidewalk some distance away.

Why did that bother him so? Did they kiss each other good night? Did they whisper sweet nothings to each other when they would be seeing each other tomorrow? 

Viktor stubbed his sneaker against the lamp post, a little impatient. They would have precious few minutes if they wanted to make the bridge in time. Or maybe Yuuko was talking to him about what had happened at the toilet ...

“Hey, we need to go,” Viktor called out. “Or else we won’t make it and you’ll have to talk to me all night long!”

Yuuri pulled away, giving a small wave as the cab backed out of the driveway. Then he turned to Viktor, with an indecipherable look on his face. “Alright, let’s go.”

With no time to spare, they ran over the bridge, barely making their way before the sign changed and no one else was allowed to cross. The groans of latecomers carried over the water and the currents of the Neva. 

Walking furiously made the new blister on his sole pop. The wetness was uncomfortable as it bled through his socks.

Huffing and panting, they almost fell on top of one another at the curb. “I need a break,” wheezed Viktor, from where he was draped over Yuuri. “Blister burst in my shoe.”

“Oh, that sucks,” said Yuuri, who grabbed at something in his pants pocket. Viktor let off and watched with curiosity as a number of bandages were procured from the depths of a scuffed brown leather wallet. 

He offered them to Viktor. “Here. Let’s rest here for a bit, we’ve still got a fair bit to walk.” 

“Thanks. Are you sure you’re ok with seeing my foot?” Viktor asked, taking the bandage. “Maybe you can look the other way. Skaters’ feet are very ugly.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes. “Look who you’re talking to. How many broken toenails do you think I have?”

Viktor laughed. True! He was, to put it figuratively, preaching to the choir. What an interesting turn of phrase, and one that he’d encountered upon reading a book from Yuuri’s recommendation. 

The bandage made the pus less disgusting, though he’d still have to clean it and replaster it once he got back. “I think I have new blisters from tonight. And—” he shot an amused look at Yuuri “—what even was that? Cha Cha in a techno club?” He chuckled while trying to stick his foot back into his sock. Strands of hair stuck uncomfortably from the sweat on his neck, but the late summer wind was cool and made it less icky. 

“It was good, don’t get me wrong. And surprising!” He wiggled his foot into the shoe and re-tied the laces. “Total genre mishmash, but it worked.”

“Oh?”

“Yes! So much fun, Yuuri. It reminds me of the time I almost skated to Hard Bass Adidas … but Yakov kept saying it was tasteless, especially with the bad economy.”

“Eh, you weren’t so bad yourself. At least you tried. Yuuko doesn’t even bother anymore,” Yuuri answered. He smirked, as if recalling something funny. “And you kept up!”

“Only because you were a good leader! I only followed. Just like last time. This time, you danced even better,” Viktor noted.

“Last time…? You mean, class?” Yuuri tilted his head in confusion. “We did try the main sequence from Giselle. I didn’t do much but hold you in place?”

Was it just the pinks and blues of the sky and the light of the sun that did not sink below the horizon, or did Yuuri’s eyes twinkle at him? It seemed he was playing coy, with his dewy gaze and long lashes. 

Well, fine. Viktor could play too. Viktor had also been comforted by Yuuri’s tiny, buxom girlfriend with no malice whatsoever, but he’d take what he could get when she wasn’t around.

Besides, a little flirting didn’t mean he was trying to get between them, right?

He returned Yuuri’s questioning gaze with a flirty look from under silver eyelashes, just to test the waters. Strange how truths came out in the small hours of the night during White Nights, like in all his books. 

Was it the dance? Yuuko being unexpectedly nice to him? Or the alcohol? 

But Viktor was stone cold sober. It was late. And he wanted answers.

“Last time when we danced.” A beat passed. He let the smile grow on his face while remembering the heat and the way their lips and hips had moved against one another, as Yuuri listened attentively. “We kissed afterwards. It was really nice.”

A few pointed moments of silence passed. Yuuri’s eyes grew comically large as the words sunk in, but it didn’t have the intended effect; there was no cajoling “yeah, last time was pretty good, but let’s not do it again,” or even a worried “please don’t tell Yuuko!”

Instead, Yuuri was quiet. 

Too quiet.

“Wha–what do you mean,” he stammered, “Last time we—” his brow furrowed “— kissed?”

Ah. Was Yuuri trying to play it cool? 

His body language said otherwise. This wasn’t flirting; this was the start of panic. In fact, with every second he looked like he was about to run far, far away from this little curbside. 

Or about to throw himself into the Neva. Did he … not recall? Or recognise Viktor?

But this much beyond his usual bedtime, Viktor was slowly turning into a flippant grouch who wanted answers. So despite Yuuri’s kindness with the plasters, he kept talking.

“Just a little makeout at Metropol in April?” 

“Ehh?”

“We didn’t really know each other well back then but you came over and danced with me. Then you pole danced! It was amazing. Then I caught you and we danced some more. We kissed.” 

“...”

Viktor sighed, remembering the sensations. “It was nice. Pretty hot. You knew how to really …” he threw Yuuri an arch glance. “Well, move. Like tonight.”

“I don’t—I don’t remember,” Yuuri faltered, glaring at his shoes and avoiding Viktor’s eyes. “Are you sure it wasn’t someone else?”

“Nope,” said Viktor, popping the p. Feeling increasingly petty, he said in a sulky tone, “You ended up with blonde guy in blue shirt after you disappeared on me. And after such good kiss, too!“

Yuuri yelped. The volume surprised Viktor, who flinched in his seat on the curb. 

“Oh my god,” exclaimed Yuuri, “oh my god, I’m never drinking again, I am _never_ touching alcohol ever again.” He sunk his head into his hands, the rest of his body slouching over like he was trying to melt into the asphalt. 

Then he screamed into them. The sound was muffled.

Shit. What should he do? Viktor had rarely been faced with having to comfort someone through a breakdown, and he tried not to show his own feelings most of the time unless it was one of the three: determined, bubbly and flirty, flippant. 

Keeping his hands off seemed the best course of action. From his vantage point, Viktor noticed several little things that seemed to make this whole situation half in and half out of reality. How the back of Yuuri’s hair was messy from all the dancing while the collar of his shirt stuck up at odd angles, windswept from their run across the bridge. His little sounds of disgust and denial, chastising himself for “drinking too much” and promising himself to “never do that again, not a single drop of alcohol _ever_ again.”

“Are you saying that you turn into a kissing pole dancing bandit when you drink?” Viktor asked, watching Yuuri slowly reassemble himself. The lenses of his spectacles were smeared from his hands.

“Ugh, you know what. That’s it, that’s exactly it,” Yuuri blurted out. “I have no idea why I drink. But when I do that’s what happens.” He screamed into his hands again. “I turn into my dad!” 

Then he turned to Viktor, his eyes downcast. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for…?” Sorry for the kiss? The dance? For Viktor’s huge crush and how he’d strung Viktor along like a puppet on a string, not that it was his fault, with how adorable and smart and wry he was. Even the way he turned into himself just made Viktor want to hug him.

“No, sorry for … forgetting!” He attempted to clean them with his shirt, for want of something to fidget with as he slowly, unknowingly, broke Viktor’s heart. “I really don’t—I have no memory of that evening. I drank a lot that night. My hangover the next morning was…”

His hands trembled as he put his spectacles back on. Viktor trembled too, at how this cast all their previous interactions into a different light. In hindsight, he’d been _very_ pushy for someone who Yuuri didn’t recall ever meeting that way.

Did it show in his face? He hoped not. 

“The guy…” Yuuri grimaced. “Ugh. Nevermind. I really, really, really—no. No no no, I’m not talking about this anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because all I remember is my hangover. Maybe the third drink. That’s all.”

It was now Viktor’s turn to desire to run, far, far away from here, and perhaps bury himself in his bed with only Makkachin for company. 

Maybe he’d leave Yakov his skates to pass on to little Yura. He’d send his medals to his mother, who would at least frame them. Would Yuuri even care if he showed up on Monday? 

His press training kicked in, a safety net he could rely on. So he held himself still, forced himself to breathe, and wished away the blood rushing to his cheeks, tinting his ears in embarrassment. 

Yuuri didn’t remember at all. 

It was just Viktor being silly all along. Again, he was wishing for things by himself when the other party was none the wiser.

“I’m sorry if … I’ve been giving you the wrong impression all these weeks. As if I was playing with your feelings or something—”

“Feelings? No, that’s not it at all!” said Viktor, waving a hand to dispel the thought. The smile he plastered onto his face didn’t quite reach his eyes, but no one could tell the difference anyway. And Yuuri looked far too miserable to notice or even say anything about it. “Who said anything about feelings? I was just saying that I liked both times dancing with you. The kiss was very nice plus!” 

Yet he didn’t look quite convinced. “Are you sure? I mean—I wasn’t ignoring you all these weeks, I mean, you’ve been really—” he rambled, “—fun to spend time with, and the books and Makkachin, and please, I’m not like that at all normally—”

“Don’t worry about it. I know! You’re too sweet to screw around like that. Seriously! My point is. You’re—” he smiled, all teeth, as if to emphasize his point, “—really fun to dance with.” An idea popped into his head. “Yuuko mentioned you’ve been doing more choreo these days? I hope you can choreograph something for me someday. ”

Not as smooth as he would have liked, but the change of topic appeared to be welcome. Yuuri certainly ran with it, now pushing his face into his hands for a whole other reason. “Oh my god,” he whimpered, “Ugh, did she say anything else? I have, but ...”

He groaned into his palms. Viktor couldn’t help but laugh. It was so adorable, and he felt so tempted to tease him. At least with this, it didn’t quite make his heart drop into his stomach. He’d figure that out later.

“She may have mentioned,” he hinted. “That you’ve watched a few videos of me?”

Yuuri suddenly sat up, his expression pinched. “If you’re going to make fun of me, then fine, just do it. I know it’s pathetic.” 

“What? No!” said Viktor, taken aback. “It’s very flattering! Very, very flattering! Like we’re each other muses. Yeah, I like the sound of that. Don’t you agree?”

Yuuri considered this, turned it over in his head. Slowly, his shoulders began to creep down from their place next to his ears. His posture grew less tight. “... I guess. Yeah. Each other’s muses.”

“Or whatever male equivalent of it is,” Viktor added, pleased to have pulled him back from the brink. “Which one did you like best? I gushed about your work last time, now let’s do mine!” 

“... Erm. The Lilac Fairy.”

Well. That was surprising. “The one with the mesh and bondage inspired costume? Really! I wouldn’t have thought that at all … what did you like about it?“

“Oh. Er,” Yuuri adjusted his collar. “The musicality was very good? I mean, the whole concept of it was really well thought out—” he coughed, and here he seemed to find the strength to carry on, his tone growing in fervor, “—the blending of the two genders, male and female, and how you made it all come to life with the jumps in the right places, that really surprised me … ”

Viktor leaned back to listen, his palms grazing the asphalt. They still stung from his fall off the toilet earlier. 

But here, in the light of the sun just on the horizon, the purple-colored sky with the cool wind blowing in from the Neva and Yuuri launching into a deconstruction of what he liked about Viktor’s programme, they didn’t bother him at all. 

He could be just a friend, couldn’t he? 

Things seemed to pass a second slower than normal, as Yuuri gestured with his hands and eventually with his whole body, demonstrating a move as Viktor egged him on. The sky shifted colors, purples morphing into blues into soft pinks and yellows where the sun kept vigil on the horizon. When Yuuri grew tired, they watched from the curbside as the massive bridges cross-cutting the Neva heaved apart to let through boat traffic.

The true beauty of White Nights—the long, rambling conversations that revealed so much about the other person, often wandering into hours that made little difference between falling asleep and waking up. 

That and a friend, an attraction, he hadn’t expected to find, who moved so gracefully even in sneakers, his hands a perfect replica of the opening sequence in the Lilac Fairy.

So what if Yuuri had forgotten the kiss. So what if Yuuko made things difficult. Viktor could do this. 

He’d slaved away at figure skating for more than half of his life. He’d won the Olympics. He’d made it through an abusive relationship—hopefully a little wiser. 

He would claw his way back up to the top of the podium this season—and keep a friend whom he knew, with startling clarity, he wanted to have around for a long time. 

* * *

**Dances for Harp and Orchestra, L. 103 - Claude Debussy, Lavinia Meijer, Amsterdam Sinfonietta**

As the summer withdrew, the ballet classes continued. Choreographing started in earnest.

Yuuri’s touch changed. Or did it? Viktor wasn’t quite sure.

There were steps in the short sequences Yuuri would teach that had them pointing their toes like jackknives and moving them in quick motions, but their pointes were “passable, barely.” Yuuri got stricter, if that was even possible, on orders from Lilia. Whenever he corrected Viktor’s posture, touching his shoulders or the space beneath his pectorals—perhaps Viktor imagined it, but his hands lingered a half-second longer.

He tried to see if it was just Yuuri being more hands-on with them in general. He baited Mila, tried to collect information from Georgi, and almost lost his head trying to ask little Yura if Yuuri had been getting more … well, directed in his instruction. 

Mila had giggled. “I think it’s your crush talking.”

Georgi had been confused. “He’s very devoted to his job? I’m not sure this is the sort of trouble you want at the start of the season.”

Yura had yelled at him. “Stop! Being! Disgusting! _Suka blyat'!_ ”

But Viktor felt it, that little extra pressure. Let himself recall it when he was on the rare tryst with Ilya, whom he saw less and less because the semester had begun. But no matter, it wasn’t _that_ serious anyway. 

More importantly, he kept struggling with a particularly thorny problem: interpretation, performance—things he hadn’t had issues with before. The technical components were all there, but the choreographic sequence lacked something he couldn’t put his finger on. 

He bitched about it, on the penultimate weekend before Skate Canada at Dolcetto while they waited for their orders—Yuuri listened, a strange, excited look on his face all throughout.

“And it’s just really silly and stupid, but I can’t get my arms to move the way they should,” said Viktor, making clawing motions with his hands. “I feel more like a vulture than a raven.”

“Maybe you should go over it with a choreographer,” said Yuuri. 

“That’s the problem, Yuuri! I _am_ the choreographer.” 

“Then I’ll go over it with you?” Viktor’s eyes went wide. “I have a bit of time.”

It’s tempting. His brain wanted to second guess it, or maybe even say no in a fit of pride, that no, this was his creation, but—“Yes. I’d owe you!”

They booked the studio at the last possible slot in the day, even if it meant going home an hour later. But they could walk back, and have dinner together, at least for the next week or so. It all worked out, a perfect plan for polishing his short program. 

Until Viktor discovered Yuuri’s secret.

“A break, Yuuri, please,” pants Viktor, dropping hands on his knees and trying to catch his breath. The other man wiped the sweat off his forehead but otherwise remained standing, as if waiting for Viktor to get himself together.

“You can really keep going, can’t you?”

“Eh, it’s the one thing I had over everyone else,” he said. “Stamina.” 

Maybe it was the closeness, but Viktor read other things into that word. He shook himself a little before nodding. “Yes, and you are _killing_ me here.”

Yuuri just laughed

It was all new, this thing with Yuuri. He hoped he wasn’t too disappointing as a partner. Yuuri’s encouraging, saying things like, “You’re pretty good for someone who doesn’t dance with partners much,” and “trust me, let your weight fall into me.”

They ran through the segment a few more times—the swoops and lifts and arm gestures, Viktor slowly getting used to Yuuri’s hands supporting him through falls and twists that would end with a broken nose if not for the Japanese man’s steady hands and strong arms. It was the process of refinement, paring away rough edges to produce a diamond; in this case, a shining jewel that would transpose onto the ice and win Viktor gold.

They talked about it, over sips of water on the way back to Viktor’s apartment. Takeout was ordered and would arrive by the time they were cozily inside his living room. The weather had started to grow cold, requiring coats with warm down lining and good thermals to keep the chill away.

“How do they teach you choreography at the Royal Ballet? Your method’s … unique.” said Viktor. “I thought I was in a kung-fu movie rather than a ballet studio. All those sounds, wham, cham, pum, pom pam.”

“It’s McGregor’s style, mostly. He said some other things that really stuck with me too. Teaching the expression, it’s not really about the story, it’s about the energy we pass to each other.”

“That sounds very new age.”

“Hah! You’re right, I think he got it out of a book,” said Yuuri, ruffling Makka’s fur as they arrived at the door. He waited for Viktor to open it, jangling the key in the lock. “It’s trying to get a sense of the temperature of that body. How we can communicate something with that.”

Viktor looked at him incredulously once they’d entered his flat. “That doesn’t make any sense, but okay.” Maybe he was too young to grasp it. Yuuri just laughed it off and took off his shoes and outer things, setting them on the coat rack. Flush with exertion and the cool summer air, his cheeks glowed and his eyes were bright—the kind of face that made Viktor want to take back his unofficial promise to just be Yuuri’s friend. 

It remained difficult. Like this, Yuuri had transformed into a kind of rugged, powerful force that took Viktor’s breath away; then he’d remember that Yuuko existed on the days she’d come to pick Yuuri up for dinner, and his feelings would fall flat. 

He could be a friend. He and Mila were friends. He and Chris were friends, and they’d done things at competitions. That strange summer with Georgi where he’d dressed as a girl had come and gone and they were still … sort of friendly. 

It wasn’t even Yuuko’s fault. They got along, for all that she'd been drawn in further by his skating programmes. She also kept being friendly, and talked for Yuuri when he didn’t feel like it, just smiling on. When Viktor didn’t think about it too much, she even seemed like the kind of person he could talk to in long bouts and play off of. The only downside was that she came as a package deal with Yuuri on some days when he wanted the other man to himself.

They had one more session together, without all those rude awakenings. Viktor let himself savor it and let himself look forward to Skate Canada, ready to win.

* * *

**Creep, Radiohead**

He told no one, not even Yakov, and especially not Yuuri, who was starting to really warm up to him, about the strange letter that sometimes made it through his agent along with his fan mail, with the strangest, unsettling lines:

_I know what you’re really like, Vitka_

_This isn’t over_

_You’re just a slut, Vitka_

_You think you can keep hiding from me?_

He didn't read them. It took far too long to break that relationship off, so why retread the same old steps? He got half a mind to tell off Natalya or whoever is sorting his mail to sort better, because somehow these letters keep finding their way in.

Another letter had been in his cubbyhole at the rink last week, in an innocent plain envelope. It was a mystery how it got there; he asked the rink security, the receptionist, everyone it made sense to. 

The cologne on the paper reached his nostrils before he even opened it completely in the safety of the washroom—strong and overpowering. Older and maybe a little wiser, he was unsure how he could have ever found it attractive.

He knew what it would say. 

A few moments later, pieces of ripped paper swirl into the toilet. Viktor said a prayer to the plumbing gods that this wouldn’t cause the pipes to clog. 

At home that evening, he took several calming deep breaths with Makka in his lap, and took apart the box hidden deep in his closet, with the polaroids he’d managed to steal back. Idly, he thumbed through the photos. They were not so bad two years later. But he did not look as happy as he’d thought he was at the time, in any of them. 

With shaky fingers, Viktor sent an email to building management to be on the lookout for any strangers hanging around the mailbox, and instructed his agent to be extra careful with any fan mail he receives. On second thought, he also texted Yakov an update to let him know, but that he’s ok.

He heaved a sigh, putting on a podcast before he went to sleep. It chased the thoughts of Danyl away. For now. 

* * *

**Seven, Men I Trust**

The weekly book club had been moved to Saturday dinner in light of Viktor’s flight on Sunday. They had not seen each other since last week, a byproduct of Yuuko’s suddenly busy schedule. Yuuri had even offered to postpone, out of fear or respect for Yakov. But Viktor had insisted on the last bits of comfort he’d find before flying off to his first competition in nine months.

Was it normal to miss someone he was just friends with? Nothing serious, nothing even romantic, but Yuuri had not texted the whole week nor replied to Viktor’s photos of Makkachin being her perfect self. No _wow she’s so smart_ to a photo of her pretending to read, and no ‘why do you even enjoy that’ to his gushing about the latest release by Gorbacheva. 

Friends. Just friends. Friends asked if appointments were still pushing through. 

Viktor thumbed at his phone, typing out a quick question to check if they were still on as he had lunch after morning skate— _Dolcetto at 6?_

The reply came back an hour later. _Sorry. Not really up for going outside. Can we have dinner at my flat? Grab a book and we can split take out._

An invite. To Yuuri’s house! 

The previous invite to Viktor’s place had materialised out of a desire to avoid the inevitable gazes of fans or paparazzi cameras after Yuuri had bled him dry during every choreographic session. Luckily he had cleaned the day before, or Yuuri would have been witness to laundry and a mess of shoes and dog hair everywhere.

As it stood, the other man had simply taken a look around on his first visit and said, “Did you leaf through an IKEA catalog for this?”

“No, why?” Called out Viktor, as he greeted Makka with a hug. “Makka baby, Yuuri thinks I shop at IKEA, how mean!”

The first visit had been nice, if awkward, Yuuri feeling like he’d overstepped with the IKEA comment. The next two visits? Easier and easier, because it turned out a tired and well-fed Yuuri was a Yuuri without filters. 

And now Viktor was going to find out what Yuuri was like at home in three. Two. One—

The door opened. “Hi! I hope you like Mediterranean, because that’s all I’m allowed to eat!“

But the Yuuri that greeted him honestly looked like he couldn’t care less. 

A quick glance showed dark circles under his eyes, rimmed red, and the sallow skin of someone who had either been crying or sleeping badly. Or both. He looked like he’d put on a fresh shirt for Viktor’s benefit, and thankfully his flat didn’t smell. 

There wasn’t much decor; the flat looked sparse and spartan, bare furnishings that added to the feeling of being a place to only crash. The mess was concentrated in the living room, a contraption of wires and odd shaped controllers lying on the coffee table, and a few plants in the corner that seemed like something the previous owner had left behind.

“Yuuri,” Viktor hesitantly asked, “I thought we were having dinner?”

“Ah, yeah.” He even sounded tired. “Yeah, we are. Uhm. Where are my manners? Let me get the plates.”

Dinner was quieter and more stilted than Viktor had expected. He had to will himself not to babble to fill the space. Perhaps he’d caught Yuuri in a Very Bad Mood™, the kind that would have anyone, even Viktor’s usually composed self, sniping at everyone. 

Did Yuuko’s schedule have anything to do with it? Or—a quick glance back at the gaming consoles—was it just the thrill of a new game release and battling it out with his friends back in London?

Or had Viktor presumed upon Yuuri’s time by insisting they meet? That was the likeliest possibility, and so Viktor steeled himself for disappointment

“You seem pretty … tired. Maybe I should go home?” He offered. “I can just read at home.”

Yuuri startled. “Huh? No, no! I’m fine, just….” he sighed. “Just work, stress, some things not going the way I expected.”

“Want to talk about it? I’m all ears. If it’s love troubles, I can listen, too!” Not that he wanted to.

“No. Not really.” 

Not even an opening for Viktor to get to know him. 

“I’m just … stressed out. Maybe a little disappointed, but it’s something that doesn’t involve you.” And, like an afterthought — “Please don’t take it personally.”

It was hard not to, especially when this was the first time he’d seen Yuuri so down. But as much as he wanted to pry, it didn’t seem very wise. So Viktor tried to shrug it off and trudge on through. “Alright. I’ll take your word for it. So what’s the plan? We read? I read, you game? I game with you? I’m not very good, though.”

Viktor shot another dubious glance at the console. “I don’t mind watching.”

“Oh,” Yuuri blinked. “You’d be okay with that? Just watching?”

“Duh. You don’t seem like you want to touch any of your books. Don’t think I didn’t see the stack on the shelf.”

“It can get a little noisy, though … the game, I mean. And me, sometimes I talk out loud.”

“I don’t mind.” He smiled for good measure, trying to emphasise that he really didn’t. “New side to you I don’t always see, yes?”

Yuuri didn’t look convinced. “You sure?”

“Yes! I can always just use earphones and read. Don’t worry about me. The important part is we just chill out.”

“Okay,” breathed Yuuri. He sounded relieved. “Okay. If you really don’t mind.”

Viktor tried his best not to mind. Luckily, as they settled into a quiet rhythm—him on the couch with his book, Yuuri grunting at every shot and move he fired on the screen but otherwise not saying anything—he found he didn’t mind much at all.

Admittedly, It was different from Dolcetto, and the change in ambient noise took some getting used to. But this was nice in its own way. Just being around one another, doing their own things. Backseat gaming, as Yuuri explained during a break, while Viktor peppered him with questions about … BioShock Infinite? Whatever it was called, with the lady in the pretty dress and her rugged companion with the mechanical hand.

Viktor had never experienced such a simple pleasure. It almost felt domestic. When he realised this in the bathroom, which he noticed was very, very clean, he had to slap his cheeks to beat some sense into himself. Instead he looked like he was blushing furiously, the exact opposite of what he wanted.

Yuuri was a friend. A _friend._ An attractive friend, all the things Viktor never knew he could like, even the messy tufts of hair and the quiet intensity while ‘fighting a boss battle.’ Even when he bent over to pick up something from the floor. It was all Viktor could do not to bite his lip and stare at his behind, while fiddling with his braid.

On the ledge of the sink sat a pink razor. It reflected the light, a reminder.

This friend was also taken. Viktor ought to remember that. 

_Knock knock._ “You okay in there?”

“Yes!” Viktor replied. He quickly splashed water onto his face to calm himself. Instead, he looked like a drowned cat. “Yes, I’m fine, coming out soon.”

“Alright, just let me know if you need anything.”

There were facts Viktor didn’t even know could make his heart pound, like the way Yuuri stuck his tongue out as he concentrated on hitting the right buttons to get the right moves in. The other man was deeply concentrated on a quest involving a giant mechanical bird by the time Viktor exited the bathroom. 

Things kept in similar cycles for the next two hours, Yuuri taking breaks and him reading. All too soon, it was time for Viktor to leave.

“I had nice time today,” he said, as they walked to the door. “Finished my book just as you almost scared me by yelling!”

“Ah.” Yuuri rubbed at his neck, his other hand on the knob. “Sorry about that, I did say I could get a little intense…”

“Don’t worry about it. It was funny,” Viktor giggled. “You’re so intense in everything, it’s kind of cool.”

Yuuri scoffed. “I’m not. Not intense in everything. Or cool.”

“What! You definitely are.”

“Okay, fine, dance and games. What else? It’s just the two.”

“How about books?”

“I just like to know how things work. Lit theory helps.”

“That’s called being intense, duh.”

Yuuri’s laugh turned into a yawn. “Nevermind, it’s late.” He waved a hand, blinking bleary eyes at Viktor. “Good luck with Skate Canada. Go do your best. Show the world your best.” He pumped his arms, calling out an earnest “Fighting!”

“Awww, Yuuuuri,” Viktor giggled. “You’re not going to wish I win gold?”

“I don’t need to.” His tired grin somehow made Viktor’s heart flutter. “I know you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smiling Girl is one of my favorite paintings, so here it is – https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/0a/Abram_Arkhipov_Smiling_girl_1920s_Belarusian_National_Museum_of_Arts.jpg
> 
> The painters Viktor mentions – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peredvizhniki
> 
> Chacott is a famous ballet wear and supplies company that provides scholarships for aspiring ballet dancers. Akane Takada (!!! she has a lovely Rose Adagio performance) was one famous recipient who did her final years at the Bolshoi Ballet Academy – https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2016-12-06/meet-akane-takada-the-london-royal-ballet-s-newest-star
> 
> She also won awards at Prix de Lausanne (and that's how she and Ryoichi Hirano both found placements with the Royal Ballet in London).
> 
> Here is the club they go to, Dom Beat – https://waytorussia.net/SaintPetersburg/Dom-Beat-Club.html
> 
> Idk if there is a gloryhole there, just thought it would be a nice character beat. I got the idea from Val_creative's fic, Filthy Hot (https://archiveofourown.org/works/10676115).
> 
> And the IKEA bit from Naraht's fic The Delayed Axel! - https://archiveofourown.org/works/15618762
> 
> I love 70s music, so have some BeeGees. The song for that part is more Rumba beat, but I generally dance chacha beat to everything in the club when I can. And don't you think the lyrics just sorta describe what's happening to Victor and Yuuri here, unknowingly? 😬
> 
> There's a lot happening in next week's chapter, so prepare yourselves lol. Let me know what you think about this chapter, though, in the comments!


	4. denial is a river in egypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor finally gets what he wants, on both ends. But it’s not quite what he expected, and he realizes he has some growing up to do. Yuuri, on the other hand, is always full of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life keeps happening and so I'm moving this to update on Mondays because we all need a little cheer and some new stories on Mondays! 
> 
> Plus it gives me more time to sharpen the writing and make the surprises more fun.

**Pour Te Dire Je T’aime - Paul Martin / So hot you’re hurting my feelings - Caroline Polanchek**

Aeroflot was delayed, as always. Viktor had arrived in Toronto feeling sore from the turbulence despite the upgrade to first class, with a grim-faced Yakov and a Mila who wouldn’t stop texting someone. The constant pinging had him cranky and irritated all throughout the cab ride to the official competition hotel, and then _of course_ he had to greet fans and sign autographs in the lobby too.

Bad omens all together, combined with the letter from last week that had ended up flushed in pieces down the toilet.

And even worse—silver. Silver! He had his expectations, knew things wouldn’t come easily after an injury like that, which, fine, was of his own making, but silver by a full point’s margin! Yakov didn’t have to lecture him at all but still did, for they knew it had been the missed rotation on the Lutz that had cost him. It had been too late to make up, and he still struggled with backloading his jumps.

There were, thankfully, little pick ups to his mood—the kindness of his fans afterwards, cheering Mila on in her events, encouraging texts from Yuuko, and an even sweeter text from Yuuri that asked after him.

But it didn’t take away the sting of losing.

There wasn’t even really anyone he could talk to about it. Mila was stressed out about the free programme, Yakov was busy with administrative duties. Georgi and he didn’t really talk about these things because it would inevitably spiral into sniping, and he wasn’t in the mood to be called names by little Yura. His parents didn’t quite understand skating, and tended to just say ‘mm’ and ‘I see’ politely when made to listen to him.

And Yuuri … He’d decided Yuuri was no longer an option. He was a friend, exempt from Viktor’s wandering attentions and yearnings for romance, and maybe Yuuko and Viktor could be, in time. But despite their growing regard for one another—nicked right from a Jane Austen novel—he didn’t quite know where Yuuri stood on listening to the brunt of Viktor’s frustration. It was all too easy to scare someone away with how intense Viktor got about skating.

Where did that leave him and the itch under his skin?

So the thing with Hiroshi still happened despite his supposed sabbatical, because Viktor had lost his book at the airport, and was doggedly trying to displace his feelings for Yuuri—in the short term sense of ‘get over someone or something by getting under someone’ that Chris and he had discussed the pros and cons of at length after the medal ceremony, stuck in his room at the Kelowna Marriott.

“And besides,” Chris had argued, “You know him already, right? So it’s _technically_ not a one night stand, and you did say he has as much to lose as you if he _does_ kiss and tell … ”

The verdict? It was worth it if the dick in question was skilled, and for all his misgivings about pet names, the sex after World’s last year had been hot and memorable. Viktor was also weak for a man in a suit, and definitely ready for a distraction from the disappointments of Skate Canada.

The reporters had gotten a little more rabid this year. There was nothing quite like a comeback story to stir the crowd’s emotions, and that included the vultures that called themselves sports reporters. So he and Hiroshi had planned this out down to the minute over discrete texts during the banquet, where they’d sat apart but had caught each other’s eye in passing.

In a less frustrated mood, Viktor would have admitted this was asking for trouble like no other, sleeping with ISU staff. But to put it frankly, he’s _lonely._ There’s no energy left in him to find other options, after skating his soul out on ice for audiences and judges alike to feast on.

A true pity that Chris wasn’t here. He’d at least make this whole post-competition shit show palatable, maybe even fun. There’s no one else he’s really chummy with here, and he didn’t want to endure the crowing of the Canadian gold medallist the whole evening. It would just end with a headache.

The silver medal was enough of a reminder right now, loose from its casing and glinting in the low light of the desk lamp. Looking at it made him want to scream.

So Viktor skedaddled back to his hotel room as soon as he could pry himself loose from sponsors and officials alike without being rude, texted Hiroshi a quick ‘come up in an hour,’ and took a very thorough shower. Such was the difficulty of being a man who liked to bottom.

There’d been a twenty minute delay between Hiroshi saying he’d arrive, and when the door finally rang. And in between the set hour and now, Viktor made up scenarios in his head. Perhaps Hiroshi had been waylaid by his boss ... or even worse, Yakov. His room and Viktor’s were on the same floor, with Yakov’s at the end of the hall, as was customary. But he was definitely going out for the evening—Viktor had checked, and double checked, and even encouraged him to go drinking with the other coaches, saying “I’m okay! I just need to rest a bit, that gala exhibition took a lot out of me,” while trying to look like it wasn’t about the silver medal instead.

Relief and another feeling—doubt? uncertainty whether this was a good idea?—ran through his body when he recognized the face through the peephole. His nerves lit up with anticipation.

Viktor quickly pulled him in, and suddenly they’re pressed up against one another with his back against the wall. There was already something warm and hard pressing against his thigh.

Hiroshi chuckled, eyeing him with a hungry gaze. He shivered. Two warm hands landed on his waist, and made their way down.

“Hello. Missed me?” Hiroshi asked, as his hands ran up and down Viktor’s hips. He looked suave with his slate gray suit and matching tie in a Windsor knot, just what he’d worn an hour ago at the banquet.

Viktor _tsked_ and rolled his eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Then he prodded a finger into the other man’s chest, looking him in the eye. Hiroshi followed it, then back up as his face. The other man’s gaze wandered to where Viktor’s bathrobe had fallen off one shoulder to expose pale skin, flushed from the shower.

Viktor dragged out the syllables, almost sulking. “What took you so long? You didn’t even text.”

A hand squeezed his ass through the terry cloth. Despite how nice it felt and how it soothed his need for contact, Viktor slapped it away. He was annoyed. Hiroshi made him wait. He didn’t want to look too desperate for dick.

“Sounds like you did miss me,” Hiroshi replied, bemused. “Your coach caught me at the lift. Wanted to discuss a few admin details. So I had to take it down and pretend I had somewhere else to be.”

Shit luck all around! He didn’t need a reminder of how Yakov could be a cockblocker in the worst of ways. Not that he blamed him; the pamphlet in his cubbyhole at 16 about STDs and testing had been more than enough warning of the dangers of promiscuity.

But he didn’t want to think about that right now. So Viktor moved closer, shot him a heavy gaze as he trailed his hand down Hiroshi’s chest and grabbed at the end of his tie, pulling the other man in.

The kiss was rough—there was stubble around his mouth, prickling in a way that Viktor knows will leave little red trails on his own face, which he preferred to keep smooth.

It felt like a very obvious reminder of how different, how much _older_ Hiroshi is—mid 30s, a cult favorite back in Japan but relatively unknown internationally, with a cushy skating-related job as a Technical Specialist and organizer for the ISU and JSF. Viktor was leagues ahead by comparison. In fact, maybe that was what Hiroshi got out of this—sleeping with a younger man who’d won all the things he’d wanted for himself when he was competing, like fucking the competition.

Whatever! Viktor couldn’t really find it in himself to care at the moment, when he was so close to getting what he wanted—to cut the sharp edge of losing out of his system, to forget, to just lose himself in the blunt physical pleasure of fucking.

Being pushed against the wall was another reminder of how strong the other man was. As his neck was sucked and nibbled at, long trails of a mouth he distractedly wished were someone else’s, Viktor recalled the grip Hiroshi had on his thighs as they’d fucked in Tokyo.

There had been bruises on his skin for days after. He was keen to ask for that again. Even if he had to beg.

And honestly, it felt like the sabbatical had just made him miss all of this more than it had helped! He missed the motions of being manhandled and positioned into how the other person wanted with firm hands, the decadent feel of skin against skin where he was most sensitive—one pull at the tie on his bathrobe and the cloth unfurled like he was a gift, waiting to be unwrapped and eaten up.

His own hands were scrambling, loosening the tie, slipping out the buttons of the suit with unsteady fingers, then the dress shirt, and then the belt.

The moment he touched raw skin was electric. It’s just so right, how the flesh of a firm pectoral pressed against his palm, how he could now feel all of the other man pressed against him, scorching hot and solid, ready to give Viktor what he wanted.

Hiroshi grunted, face contorted in pleasure. He felt rock hard against Viktor’s hip bone, his boxer briefs boasting a generous bulge. Viktor’s nipples are pink, peaked from the wonderful sensations

Hiroshi eyed them with a visible hunger, then let his gaze wander, heavy, down towards his hips, on lacy underthings that didn’t do much to conceal anything underneath. Viktor was no better, achingly aroused and desperately horny.

“I could have sworn you’d be naked under this,” Hiroshi murmured. The excitement showed up in flashes on his face.

Viktor shrugged. It’s so easy to flutter his lashes at the other man, asking him a wordless question, while letting his bathrobe slip to the floor in a smooth fall. The other man’s eyes glinted.

“That’s easy enough to fix,” he purred. “Like it?”

“Mm.” Another kiss, this one hot and hard, leaving him dazed. “Would you be mad at me if I tore it off?”

“Don’t do that,” Viktor pouted. “I really like this pair!”

“I can buy you more, if you’d like. Send them in the mail. All different kinds.” Hiroshi leered. “In exchange for pictures.”

“Oh God, don’t bother, please,” Viktor snapped. He repositioned Hiroshi’s hands on the waistband. “Come on, do the honors but don’t rip it off. You can be a gentleman, can’t you?”

Another nip at his ear, and a voice that growled, “You make it very, very hard to stay one.” Hiroshi’s thumbs hooked into the lace, and began to drag it down in slow, teasing motions that had Viktor begging him to hurry up.

“So pretty. Mine for the night.” _Sure, because that’s all he would ever get, anyway._

The panties fell to the floor. Viktor stepped out of them, his pink, slender cock bobbing in the cold air of the room. One look at him—he felt like he’s about to be eaten and let himself preen at the attention—before Hiroshi’s dragging him by the waist and pulling him onto the bed.

Thoughts went through Viktor in quick, hot bursts. It’s almost like going through the motions but not quite—pulling down the boxer briefs with his teeth, giving. a sloppy blowjob that left tears in his eyes from how he tried to stuff the whole head and shaft in his mouth in one go. Hiroshi just laughed and put a hand in his hair, tangling his fingers into the strands and pulling him back in.

Viktor let him, let himself stop thinking and just kept sucking and touching, breathing in that secret smell he could only find with a dick in his mouth and his nose in someone’s curly pubic hair. Another hand grabbed his hair, loose around one shoulder, and pulled. It was a little too harsh, and the sting stayed on his scalp even when it let up a little after Viktor tapped Hiroshi’s thigh.

He’d been mentally preparing to have to swallow and get himself off on his own again, before the other man had pulled him off because he “wanted to make Viktor scream.”

Overwhelmed, he was dragged higher up into the bed, and got on his hands and knees in a daze. And now Viktor waited, pressing his face into the pillow, making sure his long hair stayed out of his mouth and that he could breathe.

He knew what came next. The _click_ of a bottle opening still didn’t quite prepare him for the cold sensation of a finger dripping with lube entering him. At least it doesn’t hurt, which sometimes happened when he was with someone new.

At least Hiroshi knew how to be what Viktor needed right now. This time, he’d already taken precautions and had stretched himself in the shower.

Still, he yelped, just a little, and tried to hide it in a moan as the finger slid in, looking for the spot that would make him shiver and scream. Hiroshi pressed himself against Viktor’s back and whispered, warm breath fanning the shell of his ear, “Wow. You want it so bad, don’t you? I don’t even need to do anything.”

“Can you,” Viktor began as a rough hand stroked at his cock, and then thought the better of it, “A little to the left, mm, a little more—oh! Oh, yes, there.”

Hiroshi let up and repositioned his hands onto Viktor’s hips. He breathed in slowly, his shampoo a faint scent in his nose alongside the other man’s sweat as Hiroshi entered him.

It felt like his limbs weren’t his own as they spasmed with every single millimeter. When Hiroshi was finally fully inside, Viktor cried out, small kittenish noises in the back of his throat at the little bursts of pleasure.

“Oh!” He cried out, falling onto his forearms as a thrust shoved him into the bed. He moaned, putting breath into it, playing it up with sultry gazes over his shoulder and little punched-out cries. “Yes, yes _right there,_ yes—” a thrust at the right spot made him see stars “—oh my God, Hiroshi, harder, harder, come on, _yes—_ ” a push that made Hiroshi’s balls smack right against his taint—

Hiroshi was a little less articulate and didn’t say much the whole time. In fact, his whole repertoire of sounds was limited to grunts, low moans and the occasional “Come on, scream for me, baby, I really like it,” and “ _Baby,_ you feel so good, so tight, push back into me—”

Baby?! Viktor was _no one’s_ baby.

He had to fight the grimace that threatened to appear on his face whenever it fell out of Hiroshi’s mouth. Luckily, he didn’t even need to look at him, and so Hiroshi couldn’t see him make faces or cry as he pressed his face into the cotton of the pillow, in turns overwhelmed, so horny he could scream—

… And disgusted. God, could he shut up with the pet names? At least Georgi kept it to Vika.

Anyway. He wasn’t going to ruin this for himself after all that effort. So Viktor clawed at the sheets, crying out at a particularly good thrust that made his ass clench in response.

Hiroshi was grunting, putting his all into it, the sweat between his front and Viktor’s back turning it into a slick slide as the sound of skin slapping against one another made Viktor’s head spin. The squelch of the lube, the burn of his rim being pushed against—it was so good, absolutely wonderful.

If only Hiroshi would just _shut up._

So he screamed, “fuck, yes, don’t stop—!” if only so he could drown out Hiroshi’s less than lovely pillow talk, and used his own precum to jerk at his cock as the other man took him. He didn’t stop screaming, muffled by the pillow, until he reached that final peak, floating into that space of not thinking, blissfully ignorant of the man’s weight on his back.

Things felt like they were on the cusp of hurting; his knees felt weak, but Hiroshi’s still pounding away, so he forced himself to keep up, waiting until the other man came into him with a shout.

Finally! He could collapse and let himself enjoy the aftermath. At least, until the wet spot on the bed started to get uncomfortable.

And Hiroshi was solid, a dense weight to him that meant—“You’re heavy. I can’t breathe,” Viktor grumbled, trying to get onto his back.

All in all, it wasn’t too bad. The whole experience helped him get away from himself, from the constant itch and scratch in his brain from the silver medal, if only for a little bit.

In the aftermath, he lazily combed through his hair from his place on the bed, watching Hiroshi get dressed. The other man watched him back, as he buttoned his shirt, pulled his belt through the loops.

The sheets were crumpled around his thighs and the base of his spine was sore. There were new marks on his skin, but it was easy enough to hide them. Viktor felt _almost_ perfect, limbs lazy and heavy. He felt ready to sleep. But he definitely needed a quick shower to get the lube out of his hole and the sweat off his body, because he didn’t want to smell like another man’s cologne in the morning.

But Hiroshi took his time, and Viktor slowly got more and more annoyed. Why wouldn’t he just hurry up and leave? Even worse, when he saw his reflection in the mirror after getting up to find his bathrobe— _what was that on his neck!_ God, this was the last time he was doing this with him if Hiroshi was going to make him look like he got mauled by a bear and call him silly things like _sugar_ and _baby_ and worse, _his little skater._

Not only were the pet names extremely uncreative, but it made him feel used in a wrong way he couldn’t put words to. He thought of the sabbatical, all his reasons for it, and came up empty, unsure of what he wanted, if this was even really worth it for the distraction when it left him all mixed up and even lonelier—for there would be no warm body to hold him as he slept tonight.

He was shaken out of his stupor as the other man came closer to give him a kiss. He reeked of sweat, sex, cologne and hotel room funk. Viktor clutched at him and kissed him back, if only to have something to do.

The relaxation faded off into a strange edge. Somehow, pressed against him and still naked, the wool of the suit scraping against him in awkward places … Viktor felt incredibly small and out of his depth, when it had all been fun and games last year.

A wayward finger swirled at the wetness left between his cheeks. Viktor let him for a few seconds, then swatted it away when it started to hurt.

“I’m sore,” he complained, glaring at him. “Don’t do that.”

“And yet you begged so nicely for it just now.”

“I get mouthy when I’ve got a dick inside me. Doesn’t everyone?”

“You see, that’s what I like about you,” Hiroshi commented. “Pity we can’t do this more often.” A hand combed through the strands. A little too rough, but it left Viktor shivering, how he’d scratch at his scalp with blunt nails. “I’d love to fuck you without the condom on sometime. Really mark you up.”

Viktor trembled—he imagined that said in a different voice, a different pitch, a different tone. It felt weird, hearing it said to him again while he was still so exposed.

What did other men see that made them say those things to him? Did Hiroshi see the messy silver hair matching the medal on the desk, the hickey with the shape of teeth on the base of his neck, the wide blue eyes and think— _I want to keep him for myself and hurt him._

Was that what people liked about Viktor—his body, the way he bit back and begged in bed, his victories on the ice? Was that all anyone liked about him?

The afterglow was chased away by these unwelcome questions. Being looked at like this, he felt like he’d been taken apart and put back together unskillfully. Putting on the bathrobe helped a teensy bit, though not by much, to make him feel more whole.

Hiroshi kissed him again, open-mouthed, and then pulled away. Viktor stared back, unseeing. He wondered what he should tell Chris. And let himself wonder about Yuuri again, if he played rough or slow and sweet with Yuuko.

Yuuri would be sweet, he thought. Sweet enough to make him sick.

The other man bade him goodbye. “I’ll see you at the Final,” Hiroshi said as Viktor watched him walk out the door. An offer.

He felt so cold. His hands shook as he found his phone and texted Chris.

_I thought this one would be good but … he kept calling me pet names. Baby?! Seriously?!?!?!_

His phone pinged as he’s in the shower. _Aw mon cher, tell auntie Chris your woes. Was he at least a good lay?_

The fact that Chris was 19 to his 20 rendered this turn of phrase somewhat amusing. But it had the intended effect, as Viktor let out a snort and proceeded to tell the other skater all about it.

Of course, he left out the part where he’d slept with ISU staff. But he kept the juicy detail about his age in.

In the morning, he faced a grim look from Yakov as they met in the lobby. His limp wasn’t too obvious—a little stretching had seen to that. But the mark on his neck was, once one came close enough and saw through the green color correction and concealer.

Mila had just taken one look at him over breakfast and tittered. “You look like you had fun!”

“He wouldn’t stop calling me pet names,” Viktor whined, stabbing at his eggs. “Again! I keep getting all the bad ones, Mila.”

“Maybe you need to take a step back and not look so hard,” she’d said, to which he’d snorted. But her glance at him didn’t get any less suspicious.

Yakov was a little more sombre. “I hope you’re at least using protection, Vitya,” his coach had grumbled, before returning to leaf through his planner as they waited for their boarding call.

Viktor hummed, disinterested. He opened up his phone, a bolt of excitement going through him at a new text from Yuuri— _Hello! You never replied after last night so I’m sure you were busy. Anyway … do you want to celebrate when you get back?_

Yes, of course he would! It would burn away the bad taste of Hiroshi and his rude awakenings about love and intimacy at the hands of Chris, if anything.

_Yes!!! Dolcetto on Sunday at 12?_

They made plans. It was all very easy, despite a little hitch in the dance instructor’s schedule that made them push their meeting time to lunch—a big one night-only show celebrating an old _prima assoluta_ to help with—while Viktor was in the air.

But Yuuri had texted back quickly to assuage him, just as the boarding call came. _It’s not much trouble. I just need to stand in for some of the characters. See you soon!_

Viktor’s mood was salvaged, and not even the long connecting flights back to Piter could ruin it.

* * *

There was a cloud formation shaped like Makkachin when he looked out his window as they passed over the Atlantic. It drifted slowly, giving him enough time to capture it and think about how he might show it to Yuuri.

Soon enough, his thoughts drifted over to the under-rotated lutz that had cost him gold. He knew it didn’t matter, not when he still had another qualifier left. But it bristled at him. There were a few other choice things mentioned by the press that he’d smiled through but left him angry and tired. The sex had helped to dissipate all these feelings a bit, if he didn’t think of the looks Hiroshi had given him afterwards.

Strange how it bothered him now when last year had been much of the same. What was different?

Perhaps he should contact his therapist again. Not the rink one, but the other one Yakov had insisted he go to. A lovely woman by all accounts, fully recommended by Lilia, but it had been almost a year since their last session. She’d helped him pick apart the damage that Danyl had done.

Maybe there had been more they hadn’t covered and needed addressing?

But it was a transactional relationship. He was a client, and there was no one else he could turn to at this point that didn’t involve some sort of expectation. His parents didn’t really understand either, or seem to want to.

Where did that leave him?

Viktor was at an impasse yet again, and thinking about it gave him no clear answers. So he settled into another movie and dozed off.

Despite all the sleep on the plane, the flight from Canada, then a layover in London, had come in at an awkward hour into Piter and left him keyed up until the jet lag finally hit in the early evening. He barely managed to stay awake through collecting Makka from the kennel and eating his meagre salad from the airport.

He did, however, remember to share the cloud formation photo. _Look, it’s Makka! I just got back. Let me know how the show goes?_

No reply, but he expected that, and the call of his bed was too strong.

Makka nudged him awake at 7 the next day. He cuddled her, for a little bit, then recalled his plans for today. There was still his gear to unpack and his costumes to send for dry cleaning, but five hours was more than enough time to get all that done and still go for a shower and primp. … before he met up with Yuuri.

The thought of that made him light up, snuggle into Makkachin’s fur, and murmur, “I’ll just enjoy what I have, right, Makka?”

Yes. He could do that, take the small joys in hand and take things easy today before it was back to the rink on the morrow.

Come 11:50, he was practically bouncing on his feet as he grabbed Makka’s leash and opened the door for her to bound through. A few steps away and he realised he had forgotten his book in his excitement—a fresh copy of Of Love and Other Demons, to replace the one he’d lost in Kelowna—and returned for it.

He balanced on the balls of his feet in the elevator, rubbing a thumb along the cord of Makka’s leash. It seemed to take forever for the _ping!_ to signal the doors opening. Viktor forced himself to take one step at a time to the door at the end of the hallway, Makkachin running ahead of him and then sitting herself down, waiting for him to follow.

His thoughts ran over each and all over the place—what did Yuuri really think of his short programme, the one they’d worked on? How did the show last night go? What did he think of 100 Years of Solitude?

Even more importantly, was the sadness he’d seen in him last weekend any better or did he need more cheering up?

Because Viktor cared, suddenly, furiously about him, his friend.

They’d barely talked at all since he’d left for Canada. And now that he was back in Piter … all these feelings could only be called excitement with a spoonful of longing, no longer dulled by the distance and by skating.

Viktor let himself feel it in his fingers and toes. He’d realised it on the plane—why bother stressing about it? Sure, Yuuri was his friend, but friends could also have big fat crushes on other friends, ones that not even Hiroshi and his sharp suit could chase away.

He’d enjoy it. Eventually, like all things, it would fizzle out with time and prolonged exposure. Maybe someday he would tell Yuuri and they could laugh about it. Maybe he’d discover something weird about Yuuri first that would be the turn off to break his attraction.

All these maybes, no definite answers.

And not even the first press of the doorbell brings anyone to open the door.

The second ring of the doorbell—still no one, when last time, Yuuri had called out a quick ‘coming’ before running over to open it for him.

Fine, Viktor was about ten minutes early, but he knew Yuuri appreciated punctuality. He let a minute pass on his phone, and then rang the doorbell again.

Strange. He’d said 12, hadn’t he? Surely he was already awake?

He waited. Another press, this time held longer until the buzz bled his eardrums

Still no answer.

Perhaps he was in the shower? That would be unlike him to do things last minute. But anyone could fall out of patterns, and so Viktor waited, playing with Makkachin, letting the numbers on his phone tick to midday.

Then he tried again.

Nope. Nada. Nothing. He resorted to texting, a last resort. _Yuuri, are you ok? I’m outside since we didn’t say where we’d meet up exactly._

He let a few minutes pass and played with Makka some more. She responded to his pets and scratches with wonderful attention, rolling to present her belly, as the strange sense of disquiet began to build.

12:06 on his phone.

He rang the doorbell again. And then, as an afterthought, texted: _Makka misses you! Do you need more time to get ready?_

A few minutes passed. By now, Viktor was starting to panic. Had Yuuri made it back after the show? Was he still alive? Was that why he’d never texted back when Viktor got in? Had someone kidnapped him because he was too pretty?

A skitter of steps rumbles through the door. _God, finally!_

Viktor stood up and pats invisible dirt off his knees. So did Makka, standing at attention and ready to greet what was probably her other favorite human next to Viktor, for all that Yuuri liked to spoil her with treats when he wasn’t looking.

The door swung open.

“Ehhh? Who’s that?” Yuuri gumbled, in a voice rough with sleep and his eyes half-closed. The way he rubbed at them made Viktor wince, knowing how fine the skin was around that area. Wrinkles! Premature wrinkles.

Makka, seeing an entry, ran forward to paw at Yuuri’s leg.

Then Viktor realised something was different. And when he made sense of what it was, he stared. And kept staring.

There was so much more of Yuuri to look at as compared to normal. There was so much _skin._ There was just so much to look at.

For all that Yuuri had arrived in Piter just before the heart of summer, they’d only made their friendship as the winds started to get colder and the beaches were no longer a possibility. And Viktor had stopped going to the pole dance studio.

That was why. But still, how could he have forgotten that frisson of intense attraction after four months? God, Viktor tried to look away but he just could not. His neck, his ears felt extremely warm, and it wasn’t from his coat or his loose hair.

Fine! Clearly he’d been silly with the decision to stop going to the pole studio, because that would have at least acclimatised him to so much skin. So much _Yuuri_ -attached skin.

His heart pounded in his chest. Viktor swallowed.

So much skin! Clean, light definition along the stomach and pectorals even with the backlighting from the living room windows. Clavicles in sharp lines. A toned arm leaning against the entrance frame with a line that made the bicep and tricep obvious, the other holding the door open.

And loose sleep shorts that were very, _very_ short, that hung low on his hips. Little fat rolls above the garter. Muscled thighs, shapely calves. So many places where he didn’t know Yuuri had marks or moles or—that adorable little birthmark on his thigh shaped like a heart!

“Uh. Hi? Hi.” Viktor squeaked. Did Yuuri sleep like this?

Viktor wanted to curl into a ball and scream. He had never felt so gay as compared to right now, _this very moment_ , in front of his dance teacher!

Meanwhile, Yuuri didn’t seem to register Viktor’s building internal crisis and seemed to be wrestling with his own surprise.

“Wait. Viktor. I don’t—what time is it?” The question came out raspy, like he’d been yelling the night before. Like—

Nevermind. Yuuri looked like he was about to bolt. “12 noon?” Viktor managed to squeak out. “We were supposed to meet for lunch at Dolcetto? But you, uh, never replied about where… so I thought—”

He couldn’t stop looking, his eyes roving the full expanse of skin. Yuuri squinted back at him, trying to compute the time, and seemingly unaware of the direction of Viktor’s stare.

Finally, recognition bloomed on his face. His eyes grew large, and he gasped.

“Shit. Shit! Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I overslept! I’m so sorry, Viktor! Let me get dressed!” Yuuri blurted out, letting go of the door and running to the side where Viktor knew would lead to the bedroom.

The door promptly slammed in Viktor’s face.

He blinked.

Makka was silent for a few seconds, too, until she started to bark and paw at the closed door. As she woofed and arfed to call for Yuuri, Viktor paused to collect his bearings.

What was that? He … overslept? Had he been out that late? Was that why he’d never texted back, because he’d been off with, Viktor guessed, beautiful dancers from the Bolshoi? A late night with Yuuko?

A strange feeling began to take root in him. Disquiet or envy or jealousy or—he’d walked in on the aftermath of a tryst between Yuuri and Yuuko. Something ugly.

But it didn’t seem like something Yuuri would do. And behind the door, he heard the sounds of crashing and bumping into things, which overran his other thoughts and just made him worried.

What had happened? Was Yuuri ok?

A particularly loud crash sounded out from behind the door.

Against his better senses to be polite and not rush into someone’s house uninvited, Viktor pushed at the door and found himself and Makkachin in the hallway. They made their way to the living area.

He knew this place well enough—the layout was similar to his. He took a seat on the couch, ruffling Makka’s fur to keep her distracted from wandering off. The book in his arm was placed on the coffee table.

Off in the bedroom, he could hear the faint sounds of banging and clacking, the soundtrack to Yuuri getting dressed in a frenzy.

“Shit shit shit, I’m extremely sorry, this is really rude, but you have to leave—“ The words carried through the hallway and into the living room.

Another person was here.

Hm. Yuuko, then. And Yuuri hadn’t even bothered to text? Must have been a very lovely evening for them both, if he’d woken up this late.

Somehow, even with his resolutions, it hurt. Not so much that here was proof in Viktor’s face that Yuuri didn’t seem to have any idea of how Viktor felt at all, but that Yuuri didn’t even care about Viktor’s time, to call things off or tell him he’d be late—

A voice answered, gravelly and serpentine. “Huh. And you were so sweet last night.”

Wait. That didn’t sound female. Male?

A laugh carried through to where he was sitting. A low, rolling sound. A man. “I didn’t think you were that sort of person.”

Where was Yuuko? Had he walked in on the scene of a crime? A— _gasp_ —threesome?

But no female voice came.

Yuuri spluttered, panic high in his voice. “No, no, I’m usually not like this! It’s just that—that my friend and I have an appointment right now, and I overslept, or we overslept, and now he’s waiting outside and I barely know you but of course I would have at least made you breakfast and seen you out if we had woken up earlier but now he’s here and—“

Denial was often called a river in Egypt. It was also a river in Viktor’s brain, quickly drying up to the soil. He wasn’t sure how he could call the feeling in his chest, ready to burst and claw itself out of anything else. It erupted onto his face instead, a terrible blush that left bright spots of color on his face and a tight grip around his throat—Yuuri, in bed with another person. A man.

So clearly, he wasn’t straight, or gay, but something in between, that perhaps he wasn’t blind to Viktor after all …

And then he started to get mad, because—because Yuuri was _cheating_ on Yuuko! When she’d been so nice! When they’d been childhood friends, with the sweet stories about their adventures in their hometown, and with how Yuuri had looked at her so shyly during that night at the bar!

“—you have to leave. I’m really sorry! Here are your clothes—how fast can you get dressed? Oh shit, uh, here’s your underwear too—” a shocked laugh burst out, and it makes Viktor’s hand in Makka’s fur tighten to the point where she whimpered and he had to murmur a quick apology to her. “Maybe I can distract him while you sneak out? Yeah, that might work … I could say I have a problem with the plumbing that kept me up, then you can head for the door—”

They talked back and forth, the other man somewhat put off by the rude awakening but otherwise playing along. Yuuri remained agitated, speaking every single idea out loud for how to sneak the man out without Viktor noticing.

Viktor huffed. Too late for that, for Yuuri to hide what he truly was, a cheating, no-good two timer—if he asked Viktor to hide this from Yuuko, he’d do him one worse.

With that in mind, he got his phone ready to call her. There was no time to soothe his own wounded feelings, because Yuuko deserved much, much better than someone who slept around after claiming to care for her!

The sound of feet pattering on the marble floors echoed through the flat—heated, he remembered, for this time of the year—and he slowly turned, unsure to see what he’d find.

Floppy blonde hair. Blue eyes. Tall, very tall, and slender. If Viktor hadn’t been so assured of his own image, he would have cowered from the sheer glamor and confidence this person gave off, even dishevelled and mussed and rudely awakened from … what looked to have been a pleasurable evening, if the relaxed look on his face was any indication.

And the less than graceful lope of his walk. The same limp Viktor had been sporting just last night.

Viktor adjusted his seat on the couch. He put on a smile, and waved, with an ease he didn’t really feel.

Makka barked. How smart of her, picking up on the fact that this person was an unwelcome interloper.

“Too late, Yuuri,” the other man said, placing a hand on his hip. Behind him, Yuuri stumbled out of the bedroom, struggling to put on a sock while balancing a book in the crook of his arm. “I don’t think your plan will work.”

“And why not? I know he can’t hear us from here, not unless we’re right at the door.”

“Well, he’s not outside. He’s inside, isn’t he? Unless you suddenly conjured Viktor Nikiforov in your living room?”

Yuuri stiffened, and set his foot down shakily. His gaze found Viktor, as his face blanched and his mouth opened and closed, like a fish.

“Shit. No, oh no, Viktor, uh, shit, it’s not what you’re thinking—”

The corners of his mouth lifted, all teeth. He knew he could be cruel when he wanted to. Right now, Viktor felt petty, betrayed on behalf of Yuuko—and himself too, for crushing so badly on someone who turned out to be vile. “You could have at least told me you had _company_ last night, Yuuri? Maybe over text? Perhaps Yuuko too?”

Yuuri jumped at the sound of her name. “Viktor, I—”

“We could have rescheduled. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your _fun_ , after all.” Yuuri swallowed nervously. The other man just looked more entertained by the second and tried to hide his laughter, but the shaking shoulders gave him away.

 _Pizdets_ , even the way this other person laughed was elegant. How could either Viktor or Yuuko even begin to compare? Because when Viktor laughed, really laughed, he knew he honked like a goose. And Yuuko was just as inelegant.

Deep inside, Viktor realigned his image of Yuuri. Oh God, they’d all been wrong about him, hadn’t they? Thinking Yuuri and Yuuko were so sweet and monogamous and sincere, with Georgi extolling their love with hints of envy, and Viktor being jealous—yes, jealous!—of the hold Yuuko had on Yuuri, with their pole dancing and their clasped hands and their contrasting personalities that seemed to work … and it turned out Yuuri was a skank.

A skank! _Une putain d’homme! Kobel’! Shlyukhan!_ A long list of other crude words that Viktor would not hesitate to rant about to Chris after he was done ripping Yuuri a new one with the help of Yuuko ...

He would also tell Mila and they would ask Lilia to change the instructor, freeze Yuuri out, and make him apologize to Yuuko. God, just when Viktor thought Yuuri was the one exception to the reasons for his sabbatical, he’d been wrong again.

“It’s not what you think—” Yuuri started, only to shut up and heave a huge sigh when Viktor glared at him, daring him to try making excuses for himself.

So Yuuri turned to the other man and tried to salvage the situation from another front.

“Mitya, last night was… uh, great—” and _Mitya_ smiled wryly; it shouldn’t have been possible that made him even more glamorous. Viktor’s eyebrow twitched but his expression of smiling anger didn’t give way even a millimeter. “—but maybe it’d be best if you leave. I’ll see you out, at least.”

He glanced over at Viktor, and the intensity in his face made his shoulders hunch up. Yuuri struggled to meet his eyes as he eked out, “Please stay. I’ll explain. Or you can ask me questions. It’s really not what you think.”

“I’m sure what I think doesn’t matter at all, Yuuri,” said Viktor, feeling extremely petty. Yuuri’s posture curled in even more. Makka struggled in his grasp, but he kept a firm hold on her collar, stopping her from running over to Yuuri for pets like a traitor. “Maybe Yuuko would care, though?”

Mitya let out a laugh, sparkling in the pale light of midday in autumn. Viktor grit his teeth, just a little bit. “Well, he bites, at least! Not as nice as on TV.”

Thankfully, Mitya started to move towards. the door. “I think I’ll see myself out and call an Uber. Good luck with your Yuuko.” He shot a look at Yuuri, who jumped in place at its intensity. “Text me when you’ve cleaned up your messes. I’m open to redoing last night and—” a wink that made Viktor want to punch them both “—this morning.”

The door creaked shut, gently closing. The ensuing silence couldn’t even be cut with an extremely sharp knife.

Yuuri sighed and slowly walked over, every step harsh in Viktor’s ears. Under his hand, Makka whimpered.

Whoops, he’d gripped her collar too tight. “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered to her. Then he narrowed his eyes at Yuuri, who fought not to whither.

“Viktor…” The shame in his voice was obvious. “Let me explain, please,” Yuuri urged. “There are some things I haven’t told you. Can we—”

“I don’t know what else you could say to convince me otherwise,” Viktor said, slowly. “I basically caught you _in flagrante delicto_ , didn’t I? And here we thought you were the perfect gentleman to Yuuko. When instead you were a two-timer!”

Yuuri jolted at the vitriol in his voice. “It’s really not what you think, could you just let me explain—”

He shoved his phone at Yuuri, ready to press _call_ on Yuuko’s number. “Why don’t you tell her yourself? Or do you want me to do the honors?”

“Viktor!” Yuuri cut him off, exasperated. “Will you please _shut up and let me explain._ ”

The book fell to the floor, a dull thunk. Makka leaned forward to nose at it, and Viktor let her, trying to process the last few minutes.

“If you give me just one second …”

It was strange how a raised voice made Viktor want to fight back even more when it had been Danyl. Or how he could just ignore it with Yakov, with Georgi. Lilia never raised her voice at all.

With Yuuri it was terrifying, seeing someone normally so shy and subdued shoot back verbally. And yet—also exhilarating. A frisson of lust shot down his spine at the heat in Yuuri’s voice.

Viktor blinked it away. “Oh. I … Sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. For yelling.” Yuuri huffed, and suddenly all the anger in his tone dissipated. He was back to being his soft-spoken self again. “I don’t want to raise my voice at you. Can’t we talk about this properly, like adults?”

“I suppose we could.” Viktor folded his arms across his chest. “So. Here? Dolcetto?”

A rumble cut through the discomfort—Yuuri’s stomach, crying out for food. The other man blushed, the pink high on his cheeks. “Dolcetto, I guess.”

They barely talked on the way to the cafe, arms awkwardly swinging at their sides and avoiding glances at one another. Makka led the way, the silence between then even more stifling when she would stop to sniff at bushes and lamp posts.

Neither of them tried to comment about the weather or things they saw along the way. Perhaps this was how friendship ended, with a whimper. As it stood, Viktor kept thinking about the events of the last hour—how he’d felt at seeing all that skin, Mitya and his easy charisma that made Viktor feel so young, how they’d break the news to Yuuko.

But even with the worst case scenario, maybe this was the turn-off he’d been wondering about. He didn’t think he could continue to like Yuuri the way he did if it turned out the other man was a cheater.

Well, just when Viktor thought that his sabbatical was completely useless … perhaps he was better off just loving the ice after all. And wasn’t that a depressing thought, that the one person he thought he could start to talk to, that he’d been so excited to see again after just a week apart, was not who he thought.

Maybe their friendship wouldn’t even survive.

By the time they reached the storefront and ordered their drinks and food, the silence had gotten uncomfortably heavy. Viktor didn’t know what to say at all, when usually his mind would come up with quick one liners and zingers that could keep up with Hiroshi’s little remarks, even pierce through Georgi and his roundabout way of saying things to the heart of the matter.

But this was Yuuri, of course, and they hadn’t grown up together. So he couldn’t even begin to piece together what’s happened.

Secretly, Viktor wished they could just teleport or time travel past the awkwardness to the fallout. But that was the adult part of it, he supposed—having the difficult, tricky conversations.

Across the table, Yuuri’s fingers nervously drummed on the table, a rhythmic pattern that reminded him of the movie they’d watched on a whim, during Yuuri’s second visit. A quick paced version of _La Valse d’Amelie._

Fine. Viktor would try to be an adult today. A little. At the very least, he’d listen.

If it was actually cheating, though ...

It would be a pity to unfriend him and still have all these fond memories attached to wonderful books, ballets, music. Viktor would have to get rid of all those songs on his playlist. He’d have to erase the notes in his books about lines he wanted to mention to Yuuri. He’d have to write sad words in his journal, swearing off men for real this time.

Their tea arrived first. Yuuri cupped his hands around the porcelain, visibly steeling himself. He met Viktor’s eyes.

“So. I can explain.”

Viktor took a sip of his own drink before laying the teacup down. The liquid ran hot—it scalded his tongue slightly, but he tried to play it cool, like it didn’t hurt at all. He couldn’t let himself look any weaker.

At his feet, Makka moved as she prepared to take a nap.

Viktor pursed his lips. “Ok. Explain, then. I thought you were dating Yuuko?”

His hands awkwardly shuffled, trying to find something to do aside from holding the tea cup, which was still far too hot. He settled for steepling his fingers together, pressing them against one another, one by one to ground himself.

A few moments passed. The light glinted off Yuuri’s spectacles briefly, before revealing his gaze, intense and serious. Dark circles hung under his eyes from the late night out.

“You … you remember last week? When you came over and we just chilled out?”

Viktor nodded.

“It, uhm, us. It didn’t work out. We, uh. Broke up. A few days before that. I don’t want to ta-talk about the exact reasons,” Yuuri confessed.

He closed his eyes to savor the smell of tea, centering himself. As if unaware that he’d just dropped a bomb into Viktor’s lap.

“Is … that why you never told me anything?” Viktor asked. It put everything into a whole new light, and he suddenly felt terrible for how he’d reacted this morning. “Was … was the breakup bad? No, shit, sorry, you don’t need to answer that if it’s, erm. Too much.”

Yuuri continued to study his teacup. “No. It wasn’t. Bad, I mean. Just realising how different expectations were. I’m sad about it but … yeah. We’re still friends.”

His parents had said the same thing about one another when they’d divorced, but he doubted that they even talked at all. What did that even mean? So he asked. “How does that work, exactly?”

“We are—well, we just go back to what we used to be before we got together. See each other every now and then, talk every now and then.”

“I see,” Viktor said, because he had no idea what to say at all to that. Might as well set the bomb off then. “Well then. That was … er. Fast, if you don’t mind my saying. Because, uh, Mitya? From this morning?” He cocked his head. “He’s a rebound then?”

Yuuri stilled, almost a statue. Then he placed his cup down. His fingers trembled.

“Oh. Uhm. He’s. Uhm. Just some fun? Someone I met last night. At the after party. A principal at the Bolshoi. He’s, uh. Was here. For the show last night. But yeah. He’s. Just some fun. Ugh. Gosh. God. This is embarrassing.” He covered his face with his palms and let out a groan. “That’s the true story though.”

“...”

“ _Kuso,_ ” Yuuri fretted. “Viktor, I can’t—I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this morning. We must have gotten—” his ears turned pink “—more busy than. Uh. Usual?” His syllables rose in pitch. “I know I set an alarm.”

“Hm.”

“But that doesn’t make things better, doesn’t it?”

“Well.”

“I’m really sorry, I know I get on your case sometimes about the people you see and how I’m worried about you, but I’m just as bad, aren’t I?”

“Yuuri, I ...”

Yuuri blinks, closing his eyes until the skin wrinkles together at the force of the expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Viktor. I really am.” His expression looked pained “I’d understand if you … I don’t know, you need some time to think about it. Things, I mean?”

Viktor cocked his head. His expression remained neutral, processing Yuuri’s words. But inside, alarm bells were ringing. It didn’t sound like a drunken mistake, but rather, a conscious decision.

And Viktor didn’t have any room to talk about sleeping around casually, if the bite on his neck, hidden by his sweater, was any indication.

If anything … Yuuko and her big chest and sincerity and flexible hips that were perfectly fine with flashing her crotch at the camera were finally out of the picture.

Yuuri liked women and men both.

Maybe this morning was the sign he’d been waiting for? But no, Viktor definitely didn’t want to be a rebound. It was a startling realization, that … he wanted more than ‘just some fun.’ Or at least to have a chance at trying to be more to Yuuri.

It didn’t mean it was any less fun to watch Yuuri shift in his seat uncomfortably. Almost like placing a bug under a magnifying glass. Keeping it there on its back with tweezers.

Like Yuuri cared about Viktor’s opinion of him. What a nice thought that was, if true.

Viktor put him out of his misery with a chuckle. “There’s nothing to forgive. If that’s all true.”

Yuuri visibly sagged with relief. “It is! You can check with Yuuko, she’d say the same thing.”

“I suppose? I don’t think it’s my place to butt in on something personal like that …”

“She thinks of you as a friend too, Viktor. Don’t be like—well, you can still talk to her without having me around. She likes you well enough.”

“I hope it’s nothing romantic though. Because I’m not into women,” Viktor couldn’t help but tease.

“No, nothing like that!” Yuuri spluttered. “Just as friends, Viktor, honestly—” He noticed the wry expression on Viktor’s face, and leaned back into his chair. “Oh. Oh, okay, you were teasing me. Yeah. Got it.”

He scrubbed a hand at his face. “Too much excitement for one morning. I haven’t even asked you about … Skate Canada? Did I get that right?”

“Mmhmm.” Not that Viktor really wanted to talk about it, but Yuuri seemed to want to change the topic.

“I’m sorry for not texting you more during the competition, that was—” a sharp exhale “—kind of shitty of me. And for this morning. Again.”

“No, it’s honestly … well. Not fine. We were both busy? And it seems like lots happened on your side while I was off winning—” Viktor rolled his eyes “—ugh. Silver. Losing to that Jacob James fellow.”

The corners of Yuuri’s mouth raised slightly. “It’s just the qualifier, right? You have another one. I’m sure you’ll do well, even win, there.”

“I suppose. But, Yuuri … I’m your friend, right?”

“Ah. Yes? Definitely yes. What’s up?”

“Well … things like this. You know, you and Yuuko. You know you can come talk to me about them, right? If you … want to. No pressure. But when you feel sad, or angry, or just need someone to talk to, I’m here. Just a text away.”

“Hm,” Yuuri considered. “I could say the same for you, I suppose. I get that you’re busy during competitions, but … if you need someone to talk to. I might be overstepping but, it seemed like you were really disappointed by the silver.”

“Oh.” How kind of him to offer. Viktor wasn’t sure if Yuuri was ready for the truth of it, and yet … it thrilled him to hear the words said out loud. “That’s nice of you. I might actually take you up on that.”

“Like you said. I’m here.”

So he did seem to mean it. In which case, he would actually take Yuuri up on it now. In a manner of speaking. “Well, if you put it like that …”

“Viktor, what are you … how do I put it — oh. No. I don’t like that look on your face.”

“What? I haven’t said anything yet!”

“Yes, but that look. You’ve got _that_ look on your face. The same one that tells me, ‘I’m going to say something potentially embarrassing.’ I already feel like I’m going to regret this,” Yuuri quipped. Then he slapped his hand over his mouth, as if shocked at his audacity. “I mean, uh, ok, you know what I meant!"

Viktor snickered. “Oh? But it’s really a simple question. Just one word. You or her? Who did the dumping?”

“Viktor,” Yuuri grimaced. It brought the dimples out of hiding, sorely missed after a week away. “Not now.”

“Aha, so you got dumped.”

The other man snorted. “You can ask all you want but you know I won’t give you any details. Let it go.”

True enough—Yuuri seemed like the type that would rather dive into the Neva in winter than say anything about his love life. If so, then Viktor would just have to pry it out of him, bit by bit. Maybe while he made Yuuri fall for him. He could still do that, right? After a bit of time, for Yuuri to recover. Assuming he hadn’t friendzoned himself to hell with the conversation just now.

“I’m repeating myself but,” Viktor offered. “You can talk to me about it, okay? If you want to rant. Or discuss it. Or just ... talk about it, really. We’re friends.” He smiled at him, and admitted, “Honestly, it feels like we’ve known each other for long time even though it’s only been since June.”

“Huh. Yeah.” Yuuri cleared his throat, avoiding meeting his eyes. Was that another blush on his cheeks? At this rate there would be no blood left for other body parts to function. “You’re right.”

Oh god, what was Viktor thinking, saying that! Far too sentimental, and now things were awkward again.

Thankfully, the waiter arriving with their food was a welcome distraction. The food on the table smelled delicious, and Viktor suddenly realised he was _starving._ Who knew that jetlag and an eventful morning could make a man hungry?

They dug into lunch, only coming up for pleasantries after the first few bites. Yuuri, seemingly eager to be rid of the sadness of the previous week, asked first. “Let’s get started. What chapter are you on?”

Two hours ticked past as they discussed the lush, verdant quality of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s prose over brunch. Yuuri even smiled every now and then, his dimples coming into view. A little pain remained at the corners of his eyes, but it slowly dissipated as they got into discussing whether the protagonist had really been possessed by demons.

All throughout, Viktor kept himself in check, trying not to let his natural inclination to flirt seep into his sentences and hands. It was hard not to, when Yuuri was so cute even when he was sad. Viktor even wondered at how he’d react to a little heated attention from him.

Later, out in Kirov Park on Yelagin Island, as they enjoyed the brisk weather and watched the swans by the lake—after Viktor had admitted he didn’t want to go home yet and that Makkachin needed her walk—the story slowly came out in bits and pieces.

Yuuri’s hands said more than his words, the way they deftly moved through the air or recorded every emotion he didn’t want to say. Even then, his face was an open book— how he still cared for Yuuko, and was sad about the break up, but that he accepted the reasons for it and was trying his best to move on.

With mixed results. Like this morning!

How he could say he was “still friends with his ex,” Viktor couldn’t imagine. God only knew that his own breakup with Danyl had been nothing short of explosive.

But maybe that was just Yuuri’s charm, his natural charisma? Mature. Grounded. Capable of managing a situation that seemed the best kind of fodder for misunderstanding, especially with someone like Viktor.

Even more attractive now that he was single.

“Do you think you’d still want to be with her in the future if the situation changed? Or will you consider other options?” A perfectly innocent question, if not for the fact that Viktor was trying to collect intel for his own advances.

“If you’re asking me if I’ll date again so soon,” Yuuri started, then closed off. He gave it some thought, looking out at the happy families and dogs, eyes landing on couples who held hands unabashedly along the pebbled walkways. “I, well …”

The skin itched below the collar of Viktor’s sweater. He unfurled his scarf and rolled the fabric down to scratch at the base of his neck, while waiting for Yuuri to reply.

“Well? You don’t need to have an answer right now, I suppose,” Viktor supplied, although internally, he screeched: _please! Please give me an idea as to when you’d be willing to try! Even now, in your sadness, I just want to roll you up into a blanket and hold you!_

Yuuri looked lost, searching for an answer by the swans. A stray stone thrown by a child attempting to skip rocks scared them off, the sound of their wing flaps reaching where they sat down by the embankment. It wasn’t even that cold anymore. Viktor rolled down the collar further to get some air.

“I don’t know, really,” Yuuri remarked. He turned his head in Viktor’s direction. “Maybe, someday, when I’m a little less of a mess.”

“You’re not a mess, Yuuri!” Viktor retorted. “I thought it was just humility at first, but we really need to work on your confidence.”

He knew Yuuri was staring at him. But the other man said nothing, and as a few seconds ticked by, it got increasingly awkward.

“Yuuri?” Viktor peered at him. “What’s wrong?”

“No—nothing,” Yuuri replied, words clipped. “Uhm, just, uh—” He lifted a shaky hand to clap it onto the base of his own neck, hidden by a blue scarf. “That hickey.”

“Oh!” Well, shit. Viktor had forgotten. And he hadn’t bothered to use concealer at all today, because what were the chances of anyone seeing it aside from Makka? But it wasn’t like he’d ever been ashamed of being sexually active, so owning up to it seemed to be the best response. “Yeah. It’s, uh, there.”

“I see.” His tone sounded different. A little flatter. “Good that you had a lot of fun at Skate Canada. Despite the silver medal, I mean.”

“Well, he was good,” Viktor drawled, rubbing and pressing at the mark, which had turned dark as it attempted to heal itself. “A little … too mouthy, but it was _just some fun_ , you know?”

Yuuri pressed his lips flat and kicked at a brittle leaf near his shoe. It broke into pieces. _Hm._ Interesting. “I see. So long as you had fun.”

“Looks like we both have the same idea of fun, Yuuri,” Viktor teased. And then had to stop himself from offering they have fun together because while he did want that, he wanted that _and_ the other trappings of a romance too.

“Yeah.” He folded his arms across his chest, seemingly pensive, and rubbed at the area above his elbows. “Yeah, so long as we had fun. No one got hurt, and everybody’s okay.”

But of course, Viktor had to press and prod until someone did get hurt, in his quest for information. He might as well, so long as Yuuri was being more open than usual about it. “I was actually wondering … Mitya seemed like he’d gotten out pretty unscathed. Aside from the —” he tapped a finger against his mouth “—limp. Didn’t you, I don’t know, at least bite him or—”

“Viktor. I’m not answering that.” Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri curled in further on himself, hiding his nose in his scarf. And his voice — there it was again. That dark undercurrent that thrilled Viktor to hear, when it should have made him shut up.

A few moments passed as the tension fading into nothing. The other man stood up suddenly, offering his hand to Viktor. “It’s getting cold. Shall we?”

Pity that his gloves hid his skin. Viktor would have liked to know the touch of his hands, after watching his bony fingers tell stories in the air when words weren’t enough.

“We shall,” he said, and took his hand. He supposed he’d have enough excitement in one day—there was always tomorrow, next week, and the months up ahead, with the promise of more time with Yuuri.

And so, the seed of a plan began to take root in his mind, as they collected Makkachin from her adventure in chasing squirrels, and went back the long way. They wandered through streets and stopped at bridges to gaze out at the Neva and Piter, with the chilly autumn wind painting their ears and noses pink. Simply together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Skate Canada does actually happen in Kelowna. I nabbed that off "something amazing happened and I am so sad" only to realise that it does host the competition.
> 
> Hiroshi is based off of Hiroshi Abe, real life actor. 
> 
> An ISU technical specialist calls out moves and enters them into the scoring system for computing base values plus any pluses/minuses, and then the judges give the grade of execution (GOE).
> 
> Une putaine d'homme (feminine with masculine adjective), shlyukan/kobel' (masculine)- manwhore, philanderer
> 
> Of Love and Other Demons deals with religion, supposed demonic possession and a love between a plantation heiress and a priest. It's my favorite Marquez book. I was so tempted to make them discuss the laundry ascension scene in 100 Years of Solitude but I think it can wait.
> 
> If you need a reference for Mitya, this guy but with blonde hair: https://www.bolshoi.ru/en/persons/ballet/1294/ (I'm sorry, real life Bolshoi principal)
> 
> The reviews about Aeroflot are somewhat mixed: https://www.trustpilot.com/review/aeroflot.com
> 
> And lastly, these were the scenes that started this whole fic!!! I'm so happy it's finally up and out there. Hopefully you enjoy it and it brightens up your day. I'd love to know what you think in the comments?
> 
> Next week, Viktor tries to signal to Yuuri that he's interested without ending up a rebound by accident.
> 
> UPDATE: Ch5 will unfortunately be delayed by a few days because real life got real the past week for me and my editors. 😱 But there’ll definitely be an update! And a big heart to heart between our two favorite romantic idiots


	5. i know what you did last summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Yuuri freshly single, Viktor employs flirtation, skinship and the tried-and-tested methods of Netflix and chill to lure him to his bed without becoming a rebound the other man regrets. 
> 
> A box left at the rink reception throws a wrench in his plans. And Chris brings his own rude awakenings with him at the next GP qualifier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back! With a vengeance! And with 12.3k of fresh words hot off my beta's hands.
> 
> The last two weeks made this chapter a real bitch to write – work, two typhoons hitting my home country, the sad truth of a woman's biology. But we are back to our updates now, even if I am not quite satisfied with how this chapter turned out. 
> 
> More tea! More jam! More hugs! More UST! More pining! More denial! More of them growing feelings for one another! More of Viktor's romantic past!

**Tu es beau - Yelle / Three - Sleeping at Last / People, I’ve Been Sad - Christine and the Queens / Touch - Shura / Summerboy - Lady Gaga**

When Viktor had been much, much younger and had still lived in that small fishing town, his mother—in a rare bout of affection—had taken his baby teeth out with the edge of her nails, loose but giving in to her constant prodding. It had left his gums sore, a visible hole in his smile as he’d been dressed up like Cheburashka that year for his birthday. 

There were even the photos to prove it but it wasn’t like anyone had seen them in ages. They were safely stashed in the drawers under the TV in his flat, where no one could find them and embarrass him. Or coo over his big cheeks and gap-toothed grin.

It was much like that, this exercise of pulling teeth and trying to figure out Yuuri’s … exact openness to new horizons. New experiences. New people. 

Namely, Viktor. But not too soon, of course! 

Viktor had reserved his generally affectionate nature and casual touches on arms and knees and shoulders to people he’d known the longest or worked with, excluding family members—that limited it to Yakov, maybe Lilia on occasion. Sometimes Mila, when she wasn’t busy with her hockey players and speed skaters. Georgi, even after they’d dealt with the effects of that summer. And sometimes Yura, mostly to piss him off. 

He began to slowly extend it—okay, maybe offer it—to Yuuri. Elbowing him when making jokes during dinner thrice—or four!—times a week. Poking at his chest to make a point as they walked to work in the early autumn mornings. A gentle pat on his shoulder or forearm (both with obvious muscle that made Viktor clutch at his proverbial pearls) to let him know the food had arrived when he got too immersed in the latest Tamora Pierce release. 

Then there had been the movies or Netflix and chill—but that was all it was, sadly—after dinners. He’d yawned the last time, and made a show of edging over to the sides of the couch, teeter-tottering until ‘accidentally’ leaning his head on Yuuri’s shoulder while they watched one of the strangest, if inspired, film shorts Viktor had ever seen, on recommendation from one of Yuuri’s friends.

Murderous mermaids who stripped and sang and ate men’s hearts! Now that was an idea for next year’s programs, maybe a fun little exhibition skate with Chris for the ice shows next summer. 

All the while, Yuuri had just hummed at the first touch, and said nothing. Even let him stay there and get cozy, like this was something all his friends did. Viktor had let himself stay there for a few seconds, before curiosity got the best of him.

“Oh, sorry! I must have dozed off...” But truthfully, he had been more sorry to leave his perch on Yuuri’s comfortable shoulder. “You … er. Don’t seem to mind?”

The other man had merely shrugged. “I don’t really mind. Phichit and Seunggil and me and Leo and some others … We used to do a big movie night and cuddle pile at the end of the season, before we started touring. I sort of … got used to it?” 

In short, Yuuri was responsive. Somewhat. He let Viktor do all these things without so much as a flinch or a complaint, even got comfortable himself, but—it was like water off a duck’s back. 

No blushes or flustered replies at the increased contact, skinship, whatever they called it. Perhaps more than 10 years of having people work with his body had left him no stranger to physical contact—but maybe their practices before Skate Canada had bled the thrill all out of Viktor’s touch even beyond the dance studio? 

Viktor knew that if he poured a bit more flirtation then it would look very gauche, completely opposite to how Lilia had raised him to be beautiful. He still had his pride. So it was a difficult balance, trying to make it markedly different from how he casually touched other people in his life— _hello, I’m here. I’m interested. Are you?_ —and not look like he was chomping at the bit to get the other man to react.

In class, Yuuri returned the casual touches, a light graze on his shoulder to get his attention, hands gripping his waist to demonstrate the right way to bend over backwards. But he did that for Georgi and Mila and Yura, too. Maybe a little less?

The littlest bit of extra pressure was still there, of course. The cheek brush and shy smile from last week’s movie at his flat had been a new sort of win, but things were slow going and Viktor was getting antsy. 

Viktor wanted results! And he wasn’t getting them. 

Perhaps it was that he’d gone so long without knowing how to be a friend, moving from that to a relationship, that he realised with sudden clarity one day as Yuuri walked him home, that he had no idea what Yuuri looked for in a relationship. He had no inkling as to Yuuri’s preferences—was he ok with a clingy leech of a lover who loved to bombard him with messages, or did he prefer to disappear for days on end before emerging to take his due and spend time with Viktor? 

What was Yuuri like as a boyfriend? Caring? Hands off? Viktor didn’t know any of that. Perhaps he’d jumped the gun in wanting him so much so soon, but that was him when he saw something he wanted. Perhaps he should gather some intel first, then.

But it wasn’t like he could ask Yuuko, because she hadn’t texted him much in the three weeks since Yuuri and she had ended things. Of course, what could be more awkward than to ask your crush’s ex:  _how do I seduce him? How do I become more than a friend to him?_

If he ever actually did that, he’d be now worse than Georgi and his recent bawling over Darya. Given how much he’d cried over Danyl, Viktor had no desire to repeat that.

So he turned back to skating. That, he could control. Even if on some days doing run-throughs and tweaks just pulled all the energy from him. Even if today, Yakov had been particularly harsh—fine, Viktor could take his critique like nothing on most days, and even answered back, but—

“Stop putting that flip in when you know you will fail,” Yakov remarked. “You want certainty at this point, not risk. Your success rate is at twenty percent recently. Replace it with a triple axel, it will be two less points but your PCS will carry through the rest.”

“But if I don’t, then my base score will be significantly lower! And Yakov, you’ve seen that Canadian jumping bean, he has abysmal PCS but I know I can show the judges—“

“No,” Yakov yelled back, and that was supposedly the last word on it.

It was three weeks to the French Qualifier, a Saturday, and Viktor felt the denial deep in his bones. Usually he would have fought Yakov back on this, but somehow there was no energy in him. 

This was where reading fanmail and writing thank you notes would have helped. Just today, there had been another package at the rink reception, in lovely white wrapping paper and a pink bow. 

The exact shade of pink he liked. There was a light silver print embossed in the wrapping paper.

“An admirer, perhaps?” The receptionist suggested. “The wrapping is from the Moskovsky Department Store!”

“Perhaps,” Viktor replied, shaking the box. The sound was muffled, and gave no clue as to its contents. Hm. Strange. “Was there a card? A message?”

“There was this,” and he was handed an envelope in heavy stock, with a  _for Viktor_ in an elegant script. As if there was only one Viktor it could have been addressed to. Did the handwriting look familiar? Not really.

He knew Natalya had gotten stricter in weeding out the stranger gifts and threats to his safety, that there was now a dedicated team—well, one person in the form of an intern he’d signed an autograph for—sorting his fan mail. So this couldn’t have been too suspicious if it had made it through. With a shrug, he signed on the claim form and walked back with it in tow.

It was about 7pm when he re-emerged from his nap to take stock of his plans for the rest of the evening. A walk with Makka? His laundry? Dinner? A movie? There was always Yuuri to text, but he was still feeling around the corners of their friendship, somehow. Something had changed since that night Yuuri had let Viktor lean on him. Every text felt like a step in some uncharted direction that left Viktor excited in a way that didn’t seem to be just a crush.

But whatever it was, Viktor didn’t want to think about it. Just another question he didn’t have an answer for, like the mystery of his jump success percentage.

And besides, he’d see him tomorrow. Viktor could be patient. There was still the fan mail to read through. There was the box, about the size of a shoebox, on the kitchen table, taunting him.

Well. Best get it done and over with.

He shook it again. Very little noise to tell what was inside. And so much wrapping paper! The bow was pretty and he spared a thought for keeping it, just as Makka came to nose around at the remains of the wrapping. But the edge wouldn’t go away, and it built to a sharper ringing in his head when he saw what hid inside.

Red. So much red. A dark crimson lace that would be beautiful and sheer against his pale skin, hiding nothing and bringing the eye to every clean line of muscle. The panties looked more like floss than underwear when he studied them between his hands, the kind that would nestle between his cheeks and sting when plucked at. 

And the straps—how lovely they’d be, crisscrossing his chest.

There was a reason the box had made no sound when shaken, and yet when hefted, weighed solidly in his arms. There were also shoes, Louboutins with their bloody red undersides, that had been wrapped in their own bags and stuffed with more paper to muffle the material. 

Definitely better than the one time someone had sent him their used underwear but … more unnerving. His hands shook as they set these things back in the box, as they opened the card. 

Just one sentence:  _For when we return to the Balkans._

Clearly, the intern who’d been sorting his mail had either thought this was an amorous gift from a lover and decided to include it in the pile, or, worse—and Viktor suspected  _worse_ was the likelier case—someone had managed to sneak this package in behind Natalya’s system of checks. 

Someone. 

There could be only one person he’d gone to the Balkans with in recent memory, and who’d think that a nice gift after an explosive break-up and restraining order would be … lingerie and shoes. As if daring Viktor to remember—

Danyl. 

The box crashed to the ground, the contents falling out and overflowing with the crepe stuffing. He didn’t recall sweeping it off the table. Makka ran over to him out of worry, barking and boofing at his knee as he gazed at the table, unseeing.

“Oh god,” Viktor gasped, more to himself. “Oh god, how.  _How_ .” 

His fingers wouldn’t unclench from the claws they’d formed, nails digging into the table for something to ground him. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough, when this happened.

Clearly, the measures last time had been insufficient. He’s got half a mind to dispose of everything all together down the garbage chute, his mind whirling from the implications, but—proof. He needed to collect proof. Something like that, to prove to Natalya that whatever it was they were doing over in Press Management, it wasn’t working. It wasn’t working! And these things were still making their way through, unsettling Viktor and creeping under his skin when the French qualifier was a scant two weeks away.

_Grebanyy ublyudok! Chert voz'mi!_ . Fuck.  _Fuck_ everything. 

God, he felt so paranoid, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and Makka wouldn’t stop howling, worried over how Viktor didn’t seem to respond to any of her pleas to be held.

“Mak—ka baby,” he whimpered, finding her fur under his palms and cradling her in his lap. She had grown too heavy to fully keep her on it but it helped. A little. Her howls turned to sad whines, a wet nose sniffing at his sweater. “I’m s—so sca-scared.”

Terrified. Paranoid. There was no other noise in the apartment aside from the whir of the heating and the sound of his own pounding heart, running in fear. His ears rang, and he felt so, so cold, even with Makka’s body heat against his torso and almost falling off the chair.

The whiteness of the card kept taunting him. The lace, dragged out onto the parquet by Makka’s skittering claws, looked like guts against the wood. Strange how something so  _pretty_ could end up tainted by the ghost of a bad relationship. Like Viktor.

Strange how one package could ruin his evening. He held onto Makka tight, hiding his tears in her fur. She could sense he was agitated, her own little whines and boofs falling into a feedback loop that only stopped when he realised how dry his throat felt.

Nothing changed except for his headache and the feeling of paranoia, now bloomed into a full web of anxiety. The contents of the box were still on the floor, the card still lay on the table, and Makka still squirmed on his lap, far too heavy but unwilling to go until Viktor calmed down.

Viktor badly wanted to talk to someone. 

He needed someone else here, to stop his thoughts from spiraling.

Being alone right now while he dealt with—with whatever this was, a crazy ex, a stalker, a threat, god, he just wanted to keep crying, to sink under the water in his bathtub where no one would ever find him. 

But who could he ask? Yakov probably had no desire to see him after their argument this morning, and Lilia, for all her distant mothering, abhorred dealing with tears. Mila and Georgi were probably off on hot dates, doing whatever semi-normal skaters did in their free time on Saturdays. Chris had family things. He didn’t really have anyone else to call—neither of his parents knew about Danyl. 

Which left … Yuuri. 

He hoped the other man wouldn’t mind Viktor asking him to meet up earlier than their regular Sunday appointment. Viktor would forsake that if Yuuri needed time off after this, just—he didn’t want to be alone. Makka, bless her little heart, jumped off his lap as soon as it was clear he was standing up, and began to gnaw at the fabric, destroying it with teeth and paws. 

Viktor should have told her off, if only to instill that she shouldn’t go around tearing up things in the apartment. But … there wasn’t much to pull apart in the first place. And what else would he have done but throw it away?

The shoes were a little trickier. With hands encased in rubber gloves, he put everything back into place in the dust bags, chucking the stuffing back into place with an anger that sprouted from nowhere. Scuffing them would decrease their value. Maybe Natalya would appreciate them much better than he had.

Until finally, it was time. 

**Viktor**

Hey Yuuri!

So I know we’re supposed to meet tomorrow like always but I … had a bit of a scary experience?

I could really use some company right now

Do you think you could maybeeeee

Come over for dinner?

We can order in! I just don’t want to be alone right now

The reply came ten minutes later, while Viktor was trying to figure out how to say “sorry! you can just ignore that, I was being silly” without sounding pathetic. 

**Yuuri**

Yeah, sure!!!

I’m coming from outside, actually

I can be there in half an hour?

**Viktor**

Yes yes please just come over

He heaved a sigh of relief. That went ... easier than expected. Far too easy. He expected there to be a catch, because when wasn’t there a catch? And on second thought, that last text—wow, he sounded really desperate there.

But one look at the box on the table and the feelings were flaring up again. 

Drinking water didn’t help. Neither did petting Makkachin after cleaning away the scraps of fabric and chucking them into the waste disposal. Nor did crafting and restyling several variants of a strongly worded email to Natalya about the quality of the so-called ‘sorting team.’ It felt so long to wait for company and yet all of a sudden, there Yuuri was, ringing the doorbell. 

Faster than Viktor expected on such short notice, maybe ten minutes earlier than he’d said. He was visibly panting too, like he’d … come in a hurry?

“Hi! Uhm, come in,” Viktor said, gesturing him in. “I’m sorry about the texts. I was just … you know what, thank you. Thank you so much for coming on short notice!”

“... don’t worry about it. Are you hurt? Uhm, is it safe to come inside? Do I need to beat anyone up?” His voice dropped to a whisper, deadly serious. “Not that I could very well, but just tell me if I need to.”

“No, no! Nothing like that. Er. I’ll explain later? Let’s figure out dinner first.” 

They made small talk, pouring over their phones and the takeout menus with copious notes from the rink nutritionist. It’s only after that’s settled that things fell back into an uneasy silence.

Yuuri was tapping out a staccato rhythm on the leg of his pants, his other hand giving Makka a tummy rub. Viktor watched them. He knew it was time, but the words kept catching in his throat. They wouldn’t come out on their own. 

Did the silence feel awkward? Definitely. Even Makka couldn’t help shake the tension from Viktor’s shoulders, and now that Yuuri was here … had it actually helped or did Viktor now have to put on another mask and exert effort to hide how badly he just wanted to stop his body from shaking, his heart from pounding? 

… How badly he just wanted to ask for a hug? 

Viktor wanted to be held, without question, without needing to give something in return. But he wasn’t sure how to ask, or if Yuuri thought them close enough that this was something he could give without thinking too much into. No crossed wires about feelings and emotions and boyfriends, just the physical relief of another warm body. 

Maybe one that cared about him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Yuuri asked. 

The question jolted him out of his thoughts, the pounding in his heart dissipating. Makka stirred under the belly rubs, kicking a lazy leg at Viktor’s thigh. It was ten minutes to 8.

“I … guess that’s what I called you here for.” But where to start? “There’s a box. On the counter.”

“From a fan? Did someone send you something…” Yuuri wrinkled his nose. It was adorable, and distracting, and unsettled his spectacles from their perch on his nose. “Dangerous? Disgusting? Strange? Have you opened it yet?” His expression grew serious. “If you have … you didn’t touch it, right?”

“You sound like you’ve had some experience with this.”

His eyes shifted from brown to amber, flinty. “A little. Cons of being an Asian first soloist, I guess.”

“I thought London was more open with that sort of thing?”

Yuuri shrugged, displacing Makka, who jumped off the couch, no longer interested in rubs. “Not everyone. There’s still a fair bit of debate as to whether the Royal Ballet should even be hiring that many foreigners. But less about me. The box?”

Viktor was used to attention, but the kind of steely gaze Yuuri levelled at him was new. Like solving a puzzle. “The box … is from my ex. I think. Nothing dangerous, just unsettling.”

Yuuri blinked. “Oh. A recent one?”

“An old one. Two years ago. He’s been ... persistent.”

“Viktor, if you don’t mind my asking, has this been going on for a while?”

Viktor bit his lip, unsure how to answer. Technically it was true: this had been going on for the last six months or so, just when he thought he was free of the shadow of Danyl. But he wasn’t sure how to say it, if this was too much, too soon for Yuuri. 

As for friends, only Chris knew. Maybe Georgi, but they’d had another falling out recently. And how did one talk about a crazy ex to 17-year old Mila?

“I guess that’s a yes. Have your team and Yakov been helping you out with it?”

“Yeah,” Viktor admitted, after a few moments. “They have, but he’s been finding ways around it. And I just don’t. Know? What to do about it?” 

Thinking about the  _how_ brought back the tremors. They seeped into his voice. 

“I’m ...” It was hard to say, even harder to get out completely. His hands ran the fabric of his sweater, oversized and suddenly far too stuffy. “Sc—scared. They screen my mail. I have a doorman. There’s a restraining order with the local police. He’s the whole reason why I moved here in the first place! And it’s not—it’s not enough—and he—”

He couldn’t fight the sob that erupted, hiding his face in his hands. This was every bit as embarrassing and difficult as he’d feared it would be, and rather than relief he feels doubly pitiful for breaking down in front of a friend of just half a year. 

Had it really been only that long? Somehow, this whole thing with Yuuri felt much deeper than that. But still. He hadn’t meant to be so vulnerable, to show his broken edges. 

And the food wasn’t even here yet! Food always made things less difficult.

“Viktor?” The next thing he knew, Yuuri had come closer without him noticing. “Viktor. Are you … okay, Viktor, can you—can you focus on your breathing? Just breathe in. Breathe out.”

Okay. He could do that.

“Breathe in. Breathe out. Just focus on breathing.”

In. Out. In. Out.

“Can you name three things you can feel?”

“Uhm, my sw—sweater. The couch. My—my face, uh, my tears—” he sniffled.

“Good. Keep breathing in and out. Three things you can hear?”

“You, the clock, Makka—” who was wrestling with her chew toy in the corner, before coming over to offer it to Viktor. He grasped at the dry end, and she bit the other.

“Oh, Makka,” Viktor sighed. “I guess three things I can see comes next?”

“That’s right.”

“Makka, you—” and Yuuri’s look of concern, with his pinched brows “—the living room.” He studiously ignored looking at the box on the table. The older man, sensing the direction of his stare, stood up to move it out of sight, placing it who knew where.

Then he was back, close to Viktor once again, murmuring, “That’s good. Now, keep focusing on your breathing.”

In, out. In, out. Until his heart beat slowed, and he became aware of his dog jumping up onto his lap. Yuuri leaned back into the couch, watching his reactions.

Viktor hiccupped softly, the last of the sobs leaving him, and scrubbed at his face to clear the tears. Ugh. Was it possible to feel better and worse at the same time? “Sorry. Sorry, I—I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Don’t worry about it. There’s no should or would about triggers.”

“How did you know…?”

“What to do?” Yuuri prompted. “Well. Managing my—my own anxiety helps me spot it in others, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Viktor replied, rubbing delicately at the fine skin of his eyes. “Yeah. Wait, you mean. You have anxiety?”

“I do.” An awkward laugh. “Properly diagnosed and all that. I’m not on meds anymore, but—yeah. It helps, sometimes.”

“I see. That’s—that’s good. That you knew what to do. Thanks for calming me down.” He didn’t know what else to say. Breathing felt calming, but his nerves were still shot through, and the way Yuuri’s eyes saw straight through him, even with his pensive expression—this moment trembled on the fine line between the last few months of easy camaraderie and… whatever came next after Viktor asked.

“Yuuri. Could I… have a hug?”

The other man blinked, his mouth falling open slowly in surprise. 

“Oh. If it’s not something you’re okay with, I mean—”

“No, it’s not that. I just didn’t expect it. Though on second thought, I should have offered,” Yuuri remarked, getting up from his seat. “Let’s stand up? Make it a proper hug. But, er, I’ll have to warn you I’m bad at hugs. Really awkward and all that.”

Somehow, it made Viktor smile as he gently coaxed Makka away to make room for himself. “I’m no good at them too. Let’s just try? Together.”

“Yeah.” Yuuri readjusted his stance, eyes turning amber from the light. “Together. On three?”

Viktor faced him. “On three.” 

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One,” they said in unison.

Being taller meant his arms went around Yuuri’s shoulders. The other man radiated body heat through his soft sweater, and smelled like lavender, like something citrus. Viktor had no idea where to put his hands—the shoulders? The middle with its softness?—and Yuuri seemed at a loss too, his hands lighting patting around and his arms not quite touching Viktor’s sides.

They continued on like this for another moment, awkwardly giggling and attempting to hug each other until things began to settle. Yuuri’s hands found his waist, the grip chaste and innocent. His own arms looped around the older man’s neck.

Last came leaning his chin into Yuuri’s shoulder. The older man did the same. 

Strange how it calmed and thrilled him at the same time. Was that even possible? There was something happening to him, to how he felt—something he couldn’t begin to name. It just felt right, being here with Yuuri in a hug that had taken some time to settle.

And now that they were together, Viktor felt like he didn’t quite want to let go. He sighed—his thoughts had gone quiet. The tension began to seep out of his body, even with the box on the table in sight.

There was no need for words. Just the soft sounds of breathing, the mix of autumn, detergent and Yuuri-associated smells, and leaning on each other. 

It was perfect. Even the way Makka hugged their legs, asking to be let in on the hug. 

“Viktor,” Yuuri mumbled, muffled. “Is this helping?”

“Yeah,” Viktor answered. He pressed his face into the muscle of Yuuri’s shoulder, hoping the other man didn’t mind. “It is. A lot. Can we stay like this a bit longer?”

“Sure. Take your time.”

What if he took longer than Yuuri was comfortable with? What if he asked to stay like this the whole evening? Barring the part where they had to eat, of course. Makka, while great for cuddles, couldn’t quite fill the need for human touch Viktor kept denying. That was what had driven him to all those men, after all.

What if he never wanted to let go? The thought made him shiver and lean his weight further into Yuuri, who stumbled a little at it. 

“Sorry!” Viktor let up, but didn’t release him. “You’re really comfy. A great hugger, better than the reviews.”

That made Yuuri laugh, low and deep. “Perhaps they need to be updated. So, your review? Ten over ten, would you let hug again?”

“Ten over ten! Would recommend it to all my friends, but then I’d never get a turn.” Viktor teased, as he let go. Slowly, hesitantly, savouring every last bit of contact. “That helped. A lot.”

“I’m glad.” Yuuri’s smile started out small. Shy at first. Then it bloomed as Viktor held eye contact and let his own grin grow. 

Viktor didn’t want to let go. He really didn’t want to. 

His arms remained around Yuuri’s shoulders—broad and firm and strong, the kind that lifted dancers into the air, that could hold even Viktor up, maybe—and Yuuri’s hands didn’t leave their perch on the small of his back.

They observed each other, Makka having given up and returned to her chew toy. Viktor let himself examine every straight line and curve, every blemish and patch of skin. The little scar by his eyebrow and the pockmark on his left jaw. The messy tufts of hair that stuck out in all directions. His cute nose, the beginnings of dimples in his cheeks. The blue frames of his spectacles. 

How his eyes sparkled in the light of the living room. Then Yuuri licked his lips, the texture on them looking chapped as a pink tongue came out to smooth the dry skin.

Suddenly, his mouth was the only thing Viktor could focus on.

“Yuuri,” Viktor whispered. “I—could we...“

“Hmm? Are you feeling better?” The dimples bloomed on his cheeks.

Viktor began to lean in, until they were almost nose to nose. Yuuri didn’t back away, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a swallow. 

Maybe mouth to mouth, soon? “Yeah, I am. You look so—Can I ki—would it be okay if we—”

_Bzzzzzt. Bzzzzzt._

They jumped apart. Yuuri lost his balance, falling onto the couch with an  _oof_ . Viktor tripped over his own feet and landed hands first on the floor.

Ouch. His palms stung, and he’d landed on the side with a bruise from this morning’s practice, which made things worse.

_Bzzzzzt._ The person on the other side seemed impatient, pressing on the doorbell a few more times.  _Bzzzzt bzzzzt bzzzt._

“Ack,” Yuuri muttered, sitting up. His eyes were wild, and he pointedly refused to look at Viktor, sitting on the floor. “I’ll get the door? The food, I mean.”

Viktor could only nod dumbly, still processing what had just about almost happened. What could have happened, if that damn delivery person—the damn food!—didn’t have the  _best_ timing.

There’s a quick back and forth at the door, and soon Yuuri returned, package in hand. The smells reminded Viktor that he’s hungry—and that he’s still awkwardly sprawled out on the floor, his long limbs spread out. 

He picked himself up, faster than Yuuri could get back to help him up. Then it was dusting imaginary dirt off his joggers, and walking over to the kitchen table to plop himself onto a seat. The other man saw he was fine and set to taking out the food.

“I’m sorry about that,” he apologised. Yuuri’s hands stilled.

“Sorry for…?”

“Taking so long with the hug. I’m a pretty touchy person, I’m sure you’ve noticed that —” and he was sure Yuuri didn’t really mind, based on their discussion a few weeks back, but what if he’d crossed a line? 

It was hard to tell. Just last week he’d seen Mila try to hug Yuuri after class, and the other man had just shrugged her off after a few moments. He hoped Yuuri wasn’t reigning in his discomfort just for Viktor to get clingy on him.

“Viktor?” A shake of his head. “I’m your friend. Remember what I said before? Don’t worry about it.”

“How used to touch are you? I mean, with friends, work, ballet master?” It was  _just_ curiosity, with how things had almost gone. Completely nothing about how badly Viktor wanted to touch him again. Even just pull on a sleeve playfully, or nestle his face into his shoulder from behind. 

Well. Now he knew just how much his crush was getting out of hand, with thoughts like that.

“So-so.” Yuuri gestured with one hand. “Can’t exactly be finicky about it when you work in ballet, you know? I mean, yeah, work is work so I’m used to  _pas de deux_ and anything that can be rehearsed. Plus! You’re my friend, and I already mentioned the cuddle pile to you.”

“There’s a  _but_ , isn’t there?”

“Yeah … the but is that getting hugged out of the blue still freaks me out, especially when—actually there’s one story, back when I was still in Switzerland…”

When Yuuri had been 18, another student had ended up in the hospital, and the person he was with had tried to comfort him with a hug because of how badly he was shaking—and Yuuri had thrown them off with such violence, feeling like his personal space had been badly encroached on.

“But with you—you needed that hug, didn’t you?” His eyes glinted in the light. “I don’t—see, if you want more hugs. I can’t say I’d mind,” he said.

Really! Really. Easier than he’d expected. “You wouldn’t?”

“Yeah. Special friend discount, only for good friends who are willing to put up with my rants about high fantasy.” The dimples were blooming on his face again. “Pass me the cutlery?”

Things got a little easier after that. The box, moved to the shoe rack and out of sight, was forgotten until after dinner ended. 

But there was no going around it. He saw Yuuri glance in its general direction after clearing the plates. “You look like you want to know what’s inside.”

“Oh! No—” Yuuri startled. “—that’s up to you, if you want to talk about it. I just thought it looked familiar?”

“Have you seen a box of Loboutins before?”

Yuuri’s eyes widened comically. “Your ex sent you a box of  _Christian Loboutins_ ?” He butchered the pronunciation with that cute mix of Japanese and British accents, and Viktor had to hold back a giggle. 

Then the laugh was gone once he thought about what the “gifts” meant. “Yeah, and some … other personal things.”

“That’s creepy!” Yuuri agreed. “That’s absolutely creepy and skeevy. No wonder you were feeling bad about it.”

“Have you had similar experiences?”

“Thankfully, nothing personal but the—uh—yeah. The dangerous stuff,” Yuuri said, scratching his neck. They were still at the kitchen table, waiting for the tea to steep in their mugs. “Do we need to call the doorman to help us dispose of it, you think?”

“No, don’t think so,” Viktor replied, getting up to grab the jam from the counter and two teaspoons. “I’ll talk to my PR manager in the morning. She said someone was sorting my mail for stuff like this, but—” he shrugged. “You can see that things still fall through the cracks.”

Yuuri looked at the box dubiously. “Don’t play it off like that. It’s a major trigger for you, so they should be taking this more seriously.”

“I definitely pay them enough for this to be a big concern,” Viktor cracked the jam open “but I think he’s been sneaking past them somehow. Or paying someone at the rink. Or knows someone there.”

“Will you at least talk to rink security about it? Yakov Davidovich?”

“Oh! I have.” And yet here they were. “Don’t get me started on that. All I get are reminders that they are trying. But it’s not working, clearly.” 

He scooped up a glob of jam with one spoon and offered it to Yuuri. “Here. For your tea.”

Yuuri’s expression found itself between confusion and horror. “You put  _jam_ in your tea?”

“And you don’t?”

“No!  _No._ No, because that is weird!” Yuuri blurted out. “Why ruin perfectly good tea with … preserved fruit?”

“Because tea with jam tastes good? And it balances the bitterness of the leaves out—no? Oh wow, your face.”

“I can’t believe this,” Yuuri said, inching his tea cup away from the spoon. He glared at Viktor’s hand, as if that would make the jam disappear. “Get that thing away from me, you heathen.”

Heathen? It was hard not to snort with how comically intense Yuuri’s glare was. “I can’t believe you’re fighting me over jam. Have you not seen Lilia do the same? The other dancers?”

“I thought it was her quirk, not a whole cultural thing. Or that you did it.” He glared at his own mug. “I never saw you do that at Dolcetto.”

“They don't offer it there. But maybe you've just not noticed it till now?”

“Probably. Just—” Yuuri took a sip, wincing at the heat “—ouch, too hot. No jam. Ever. Please.”

“Fine. Fine!” Viktor laughed, placing the spoon in his own mug. “I’ll keep my jam, and you can keep your purist tea sensibilities, and we can still be friends.”

Friends who drifted off from the topic of the box and moved on to less unhappy subjects. Friends who played with each other’s hands in pokes of fingers and light slapping touches. Friends who listened once the topic inevitably came back to the reason Viktor had called Yuuri over in the first place.

There really was no going around it, not when he’d catch Yuuri glancing over at it every now and then. 

“That box,” he gestured at it, placed away on the kitchen counter. “It came from my ex. But as for why I needed someone—well.” 

Yuuri waited for him to continue. The silence stretched, until it became awkward and Viktor wanted to poke at the elephant in the room with a pin to make it run.

“You don’t need to talk about it if you’re not comfortable with it,” Yuuri offered. “You don’t need to tell me more than you feel you’re ready to.” 

But Yuuri didn’t need all these details. Perhaps Viktor was stalling, but at this point, who cared? He felt wrung out by the breakdown, made vulnerable by the hug. And he still wanted to talk about it. 

Or not. All he wanted to do was to feel better. Talking seemed the easiest way to it.

The cold was sailing in through the open windows, and Makka was napping at his feet. The tea was still warm in his cup. And Yuuri looked ready to listen, to ask questions but not to pry too much, mindful of Viktor’s responses.

“He wasn’t my first boyfriend. More like my—my third? The second relationship was a bit of a yes-no situation…” Because he and Georgi inevitably fought, and then fucked it out, in cycles dependent on that day’s practice. “Anyway, you know how it is with teenagers. Especially during summer camps. I had another short relationship before him.”

“Hm. He was your age?”

“No, he was in university by then? We met in the summer, I was bored. At a sponsors’ party. And then we met again in a literature class at the state university. He could really talk about Pushkin, Dostoyevsky, the Soviet authors. Gorky, Tsvetaeva. Some of the bigger English authors too, a few of the translated Murakami works.”

Yuuri snorted at the mention of Murakami, the sound muffled by his hand. “Mm. Is that how you got to spending more time with each other?”

“Yeah. His English was very good, too.” As was the intellectual conversation, and the flirting, and all the kissing and sex that had followed after their end of class party. All that and his voice and eyes and strong opinions had formed one strong cocktail that had entranced him at 17. 

But Yuuri didn’t need to know all those details. What he probably should know—“He was nice. At first.”

“Huh. Then he changed?”

“Then when we became exclusive, he had some really … strong ideas about how I should dress and act. He liked to talk a lot about my ‘amazing ass’ and my ‘beautiful hair.’” Viktor made the air quotes with both hands. “It was pretty nice, at the start.” 

Yuuri’s lips thinned. “Attention like that is always nice. But it sounds like that’s not all he did.” 

“Well. Sometimes,” Viktor pitched up his voice, “he’d ask me to speak like this during dates. At first I thought it was fun, like spice to the relationship, yes?”   
  
“Wait. But you’re fine with dressing up as a girl, right?” Viktor flinched at the word. Yuuri’s eyebrows pinched together, taking in his reaction. “So …” 

“Yes, but then it became everything to him. Every date, every time we were in public—Vitya, you look so pretty in that dress. Could you do your hair this way next time? Vika, you look so lovely, and your legs look great in those heels. Vika, you’re all mine, my pretty little  _girl_ —” Viktor bit out. 

He had to stop himself consciously from gritting his teeth. “I’m just— _”_ He blew out air at the silver locks near his chin. “I don’t know what I was thinking back then.” He sat back in his seat with a huff, closing his eyes to breathe. 

“I’m sorry. For that. For what he did. It sounds really terrible. Manipulative.” 

“Don’t apologize.” Viktor waved a hand to emphasize his point. “It was me, being young and stupid. Thinking a dumb trip to the Balkans would fix things. Now all he needs to do is send me a box of shoes and—and other things. 

“And I fall to pieces!” And laugh, watery and unsure. His throat felt dry. 

The tea had gone cold. Yuuri wasn’t saying anything, just staring at him, with eyes that seemed to see everything. 

Clearly Viktor had said too much too soon. Again, the same mistakes as before, saying the truth of his private life to friends. 

It wasn’t as if any of them could relate, and it seemed everyone thought Viktor stupid for having trusted Danyl that much ... even Georgi hadn’t made such mistakes that led him to getting stalked and sent creepy letters and gifts despite the increasing amounts of security!

That must have been what Yuuri was thinking, because he continued to not say anything. Just looking at Viktor, with a pensive gaze he couldn’t decipher. Like the gears were working in his head, but who could say that there wasn’t pity in there mixed with regret at having been subjected to Viktor’s mess?

“I see.” That was all Yuuri said. He blinked, light glinting off his blue spectacles, but nothing else came after. 

It was all Viktor could do not to sink further into his seat from hot shame, arms clasped around one another. He wasn’t sure how to salvage this one. If it was even salvageable was anyone’s guess, with the way Yuuri stayed quiet.

Before, there had been Makkachin to break the silence, or little distractions in the studio or walking around outside that could get the conversation going again. But here, in the quiet of his flat, there was nothing but lonely Viktor Nikiforov, baring his problems in front of a friend too soon. He didn’t even have a camera to smile into, or a fan to sign things for. 

All he could do was let his hair fall into his eyes and hide, perhaps stare at the edge of the table. Had wood panelling ever been so interesting? The whorls and patterns, the dull sheen of the wax… 

Oh, who was he kidding! Viktor should probably say something, let Yuuri know they didn’t need to dwell on this and hope the dance instructor didn’t start avoiding him. 

So it came as a surprise when the older man finally spoke. His voice made Viktor jump in his seat.

“Sorry! I was just thinking … How can —what do you want to do? I’ll have to admit. I’m stumped. How can I help you feel better?”

Viktor blinked. Of course he wanted to feel better, but it seemed like a far off idea, after being reminded of how despite all his efforts, Danyl still found ways to reach him and twist his stomach into knots. 

So he leaned into what he knew—hiding his uncertainty because there was no clear answer to this and he didn’t want to make Yuuri uncomfortable with his own discomfort. 

“Don’t we all,” Viktor drawled. “Honestly? Just talking about this. It’s helping.”

“... I don’t think I’ve done much except hug and listen to you. Are you sure?” 

“Really! I’m just glad I’m not alone with my thoughts right now. Thank you, Yuuri.”

Well, it was the truth. Even if Viktor didn’t feel completely okay just yet. He would probably be replaying this conversation again and again in his head tonight as he laid under the duvet, wondering how it could have gone better.

But it seemed that the other man wasn’t quite done. “I can see that thinking about this—well, this whole thing, really, it really affects you. How about … how about we do something completely different?”

“What do you mean? Completely different? Like … read books? Go for a walk?” Viktor glanced at the clock. “Damn. It’s getting late. We can cancel Dolcetto tomorrow, I’m sure you’re tired from listening to all my shitty business—”

“No, wait, hear me out on this! Don’t—don’t do that thing where you push aside how uncomfortable you are. No,  _look_ , I can see your eyes pinching, just  _listen_ to me! So something like that, but we stay here. Like … dancing? Just dancing. We put on a song, we dance it out. It usually works. For me, at least.”

A promising idea, but it sounded awfully familiar. “Like one of those cheesy American movie dance scenes? Like Pulp Fiction last week?”

Yuuri perked up. “Yes, exactly. Do you think that might help?”

What harm could it do? Movement always calmed Viktor down, but it wasn’t like he could sneak into the rink and skate at this hour. The hockey team would rip him a new one if he did. “Alright. Minus setting that box on fire, I’ll take anything.” 

He let Yuuri pick the first song: Chuck Berry’s  _You Can Never Tell_ . The strums of the guitar filled the living room and kitchen as he and Yuuri did their own version of the dance-off. Yuuri taught him a little shoe shuffle, a little Charleston, enough to fall into the beat in their socks and sweats. 

The song ended, leaving Viktor with the beginnings of a smile and Yuuri huffing a laugh. 

“Not bad! Better than Mia, we would have definitely won the trophy.”

“They would have stolen it anyway,” Viktor quipped. The next song began to come on. “Can we keep dancing, Yuuri?”

“Of course,” Yuuri answered. He whipped off his glasses, placing them on the side table. “Let me know when you want to stop.”

It was difficult to name most of the songs. Viktor could conjure up memories of having heard them before but never the artists nor the titles. Not that it mattered. He and Yuuri kept dancing, busting out moves pulled from dance classes, banquets, clubbing and movies—until a slow track came on.

Yuuri extended his arms, a loose hold. “Just like the summer,” he offered. “If you’d like. May I have this dance?” 

Viktor giggled between breaths, panting and trying to catch his breath. “Give me a break, you stamina monster.” 

Both Yuuri’s expression and his arms slowly dropped. “Oh, oh no. Sorry! I got carried away. We can stop here, if you’d like. I’m sure you’re tired.” 

“I said, give me a moment! Not stop, Yuuri. I’ll join you in a bit. Maybe you can pick the last song? Something slow?”

“I’ll let Spotify choose.” Yuuri offered up the hold again, as the first strains of the synthesizer came on. “Ready?”

There was something different about this one, how they swayed from side to side, not quite touching. Or letting themselves touch. Things were chaste. There was nothing Viktor should have been able to read into the whole atmosphere of it, as the lyrics asked:  _who's gonna drive you home, tonight?_

But he did. Every lyric asked a question that he didn’t want to let himself answer. His throat felt tight, his skin felt too warm, and his hands, with Yuuri holding onto them, were two bright points of contact that kept him in the moment.

“Yuuko liked this song,” Yuuri mumbled, more to himself. Maybe Viktor wasn’t meant to catch it, but they kept swaying together anyway, somewhat in time. “Before you say anything, don’t. Don’t worry about it. I don’t really have bad feelings about the song, it just seemed appropriate for a last dance.”

A piece of information about the events of last month. “How is she?”

“She’s fine,” Yuuri answered, not quite looking him in the eye. “She and I still talk.”

“Like friends? Like checking up on one another? Or … “

“All of the above. I don’t know where I am mentally with that, exactly, or dating, but yeah. She says you should text her. Don’t be a stranger.”

Viktor pursed his lips. “She mentioned me?” How nice of her. 

“I did. Then she asked after you.” His cheeks looked pinker than before. Probably the lights, and Viktor himself feeling tired. “Anyway. The sentiment stands. Talk to her, she’s a good person.”

“I’ll try.” Well, he would, if he remembered tomorrow. “I’m not sure if she really meant it, though.”

Yuuri stopped swaying, cocked his head to the side. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s one of those niceties, isn’t it? Besides,” Viktor pulled back him in, feeling petty and tired and just wanting another hug so he might as well trick his way into it. “She might have noticed how much of your time I ate up.”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, uhm,” Yuuri stammered, eyes growing wide. “That is completely not your fault at all. I wanted to spend time with you! Like, like I don’t know. You’re probably one of my best friends, for all the things we’ve done together so far. It’s only been six months, but it feels like longer.”

It was hard to say how loud the screech in Viktor’s head sounded. Did he make a noise? He’d stopped dancing at some point, and the music had already reached what sounded to be the last repeat of the chorus, and Yuuri just seemed sincere.

Viktor wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Friend. Best friend. Somehow those words didn’t compute, made him happy and hurt him at the same time. Like someone was lighting his skin up from the inside while clawing a fist shut around his heart.

Yeah. He’d been friend zoned to  _hell_ . Not even a blush, and Yuuri’s little mumble of “ugh, too much,” didn’t even register with him.

Was this even better or worse? All his hints, all his little flirty sentences—fine, he’d graduated from friend to best friend, but did that mean he was way out of fun sex territory? That he couldn’t, well, ask Yuuri for a little make out or hand jobs or offer his mouth or—

Then he slapped himself mentally upside in the jaw, because here he was, thinking with his dick again when they were having a moment. All orchestrated by Danyl the asshole.

Yuuri licked his hips nervously. Viktor followed that little pink tongue, and felt the heat start to pick up in his groin. 

This man was absolutely distracting even as he stitched Viktor up only to break his heart again. 

He might as well milk it for all this was worth. “If I’m your best friend,” Viktor wondered, “Does that mean I can ask for hugs more often?”

“Ah! Yeah, sure.”

Promising. “Even in public? Even around the other students and skaters?”

“So long as you warn me.” What counted as a warning? “I don’t like surprise hugs, they freak me out.”

“What about jump hugs where I warn you that I’m going to jump you?”

Both hands let go of Viktor’s. “Ah! Oh, Uhm,” Yuuri looked away. “J–jumping someone means something completely different in English.”

“Whoops. Sorry.” Viktor wasn’t sorry at all. Viktor was happy and slightly disappointed and also really confused, because Yuuri had just talked him through a breakdown, given him a lovely hug, and helped him dance the sadness away.

It did quite sound like best friend territory. But the questions that song kept asking? Viktor knew the answers. He just didn’t know what to do with them, when all of a sudden he was just so incandescently confused about what this all meant.

“Can I have another hug now, then?” If all his flirting was landing on someone oblivious, then why did the lilt in the question still sneak into his voice? Dammit, he needed to go to acting classes again.

“Of course! Come here.” And there Viktor was, walking into open arms again, smelling the lavender and the citrus. This time he let himself really enjoy it, feel the full body contact and press himself firmly up against Yuuri.

What did best friend even mean here? Chris was his good friend, but not his best friend, because he didn’t quite talk to Chris about his parents, about his nightmares of early retirement. 

Georgi was like a fuck-friend, the kind he could rely on for angry hate sex and insightful advice when the mood suited them both, and when he wasn’t busy nursing the hurts to his career from Viktor. Mila was his gossip friend, fun to have in the rink but otherwise not really available. Yura was just too young, more like a little brother. 

Oh. Viktor really didn’t have any friends, did he.

“You’re my best friend, too,” Viktor mumbled into Yuuri’s sweater. “Maybe even more than Makka.”

Yuuri didn’t say anything, just held him tighter. Which was fine, Viktor didn’t need air anyway.

He did need clarity. He needed a plan. Best friend didn’t mean a relationship—romance wasn’t completely off the table, still. But yeah, not too soon. Maybe they were just two lonely people finding comfort in one another tonight, minus the bed.

But there were other downsides to consider. Best friend meant—what if he told Yuuri about his feelings, and Yuuri didn’t feel the same way? What if he did, and they tried, and things went awful and terrible?

What if Viktor lost his best friend because he didn’t know how to enjoy things as they were, always too much, always reaching for more than what he was given?

“You feeling better?” Yuuri asked, pulling away. “Can I….”

“Mm?”

“Ruffle your hair? I sort of want to.”

This was a question he’d heard before—everyone wanted to touch his hair—but it was nice of him to ask. Besides, best friends did that sort of thing  _platonically_ , right? And Viktor liked feeling a hand in his hair, especially when it was attached to someone with such a gentle touch. “Go ahead.”

Maybe he spoke too soon. Yes, the touch was platonic, rhythmic strokes writing patterns into his scalp with a light touch, but Viktor’s body kept mistranslating it and getting interested. 

But Yuuri wasn’t interested. He didn’t quite see Viktor that way. Maybe not yet.

He leaned his head away slowly, not wanting to scare Yuuri off. “Hey. Thank you.”

“I hope this helped.”

“It did. I … I don’t know how to repay you for this.”

Yuuri shook his head, letting his hand fall out of Viktor’s hair in a slow waterfall of gliding fingers.

That didn’t feel platonic or chaste at all. And the glint in Yuuri’s eyes, warm browns and ambers, made Viktor take a step back. 

No, no. Not now. Too much too soon. Whenever men looked at him even five degrees left of that, he ended up stripping his clothes off, opening his mouth and his legs, and lying into the nearest horizontal surface with them.

But not with Yuuri. He didn’t want to lose him by scaring him off with an unwelcome offer of friends with benefits. Was the other man even  _aware_ of how Viktor had been trying to seduce him?

A thought for tomorrow. He could cherish what they had for today and not complicate things, couldn’t he? 

But at the same time, Viktor badly wanted to shake him by the shoulders, smoosh his face between his hands and say to his face:  _please. Notice me. Notice my feelings. It’s so obvious. I like you so much_ .  _You’re my best friend too, and I think I’m ..._

So much that it made him unable to even mention it. For once in his life, he could do nothing at all but watch Yuuri, so soft and sweet, smile at him and still offer to meet him for lunch on the morrow. Never before had his chest ached liked this, with a dream so close and yet so far away—unaware of how Viktor badly wanted to hold his attention, his hand, his heart, as he put on the coat they’d shopped for together and got ready to leave.

Was it possible to want everything all at once? To be held again, and this time, to kiss him. To have everything mean something deeper than this. To spend the night with him, and just sleep. To spend the night with Yuuri, and wake up to him in the morning. 

For now, he’d settle for hugs and strong arms wrapped around him as they said good night, reassuring him he wasn’t alone. That in the same building, just one floor above, there was someone who lo—no, cared about him enough to call him his best friend. 

* * *

The quality of their touching changes. If anything, it leaves Viktor confused, wanting more and more with a growing itch under his skin that made him dither between checking his hookup apps, scheduling something with Hiroshi, or even saying mean things to Georgi until the other man would push him into an empty office and have him on the closest horizontal surface.

Sabbatical? What sabbatical! Even if he really did desire something more long-term—his body, his brain wouldn’t shut up with how he needed something  _now._

Viktor tried to really ignore it, temper his growing sexual attraction to Yuuri—but what he’d forgotten to factor in was that it multiplied tenfold, hundredfold with the discovery of the depth of their camaraderie, of his own feelings.

Who knew actually having  _feelings_ and  _a proper friendship_ with someone he wanted to originally just fuck could be so complicated? Fine, he wasn’t in lo—he didn’t enjoy the other man’s gaming obsession and couldn’t quite understand it, but it didn’t mean that he didn’t want to … abandon his book when he back seat gamed with Yuuri, crawl into his lap during breaks and distract him with kisses.

It was even more terrifying to give it a name. He looked around online, searching Reddit for ways to describe it and they all gave him answers he thought hard and deep about before he slept. 

Mostly, he was angry with himself. His feelings ebbed and flowed daily, but every time he saw Yuuri or read his texts, his heart would just thump like it was trying to resuscitate itself and wouldn’t stop fluttering. His emotions about it were such a mess that he felt like he might burst. 

Even worse—the words just wouldn’t come. And every time he thought he could finally talk to Yuuri about it, ask him if he might be interested to go out on a proper date that neither of them could misconstrue, especially when Yuuri looked extremely comfortable with the situation, something or the other would happen. Mila would drop by. An instructor would call in sick and Yuuri would rush off to fill their class. Yura, annoying little Yura, would linger after class and ask countless questions while calling Viktor old and a ‘soon-to-be-has-been’. Georgi would distract him with discussion on potential programme ideas.

Even when they went to Dolcetto or he visited Yuuri for dinner, Viktor kept stopping himself. He, who prided himself on being an initiator, taking what he wanted and leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake once he’d gotten dicked and given dick, couldn’t even ask his ballet instructor out on a date!

Perhaps he wasn’t as popular or as in demand as he thought he was. Now that was a thought.

Chris was, at least, a known quantity—slowly shedding the pure Swiss alps meadow boy image, turning into a tiger, a slinking panther, a lynx. Something feline that knew how to catch Viktor in his post Trophee Eric de Bompard funk with an offering of a fun night out, and turn it into a stumbling romp back to their hotel room.

“I can’t believe you,” he hissed out. “Recovering from a knee injury and yet you still win gold! There’s nothing you can do wrong, is there? Do you shit gold too?”

“Do you want to check? The toilet’s over there, though you’ll have to wait till tomorrow.” Viktor laughed. Everything was sparkling and tittery and perfect in the light of too much good wine. Fantastic choice, hosting this qualifier in Bordeaux. “I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing, Chris.”

“Bahhh,” said Chris, moving his hand in a soft, floaty gesture meant to dismiss the idea. He slanted Viktor a look. “I’m into other things though. Far more enjoyable things.”

Getting pushed into the bed was always fun. This one even had a good mattress, perfect for such efforts. The kissing was nice too; it was always nice, but had especially gotten much, much better after last summer in Barcelona and then that nudist beach in Toulouse...

There wasn’t really much to complain about on Viktor’s side. If anything, it seemed like Chris was working through feelings of his own. His kisses turned a little rough at times, little bites and nibbles that made Viktor jump in his skin. The hand he put in Viktor’s hair pulled, not too much, but enough to sting in a way that felt good, that took Viktor out of his own head. 

He had flipped Viktor with strong hands onto his back, fingering him open to soft cries and moans. One finger turned to two; it burned a little, but gave within a few thrusts. And then Chris angled his fingers like so, curling the first joints, and Viktor almost arched off the bed in delight. 

“Chris!” he gasped. “Where’d you learn that?” The other man simply smiled, and kept going. He lost all words after that, grunting and heaving and moaning as pinpricks of pleasure at his prostate started to turn into a low pressure in his belly that felt good, just too good, perfect.

It would have been better if they’d at least been kissing while he was fingered open. As it was, Chris took his fingers out—Viktor whined at the sudden feeling of emptiness—and fitted a condom onto himself, slathering it with lube, so much that it felt like they’d wet the bed when the blunt head of Chris’ cock began to enter Viktor.

Viktor groaned, throwing his head back and exposing the column of his neck to kisses from Chris’ mouth. 

So good. Amazing. Pure physical sensation. Almost perfect. 

“Please?” He whispered, grasping at Chris’ arms as the other man bent him in half and began to push further into him. “Go hard. I don’t want to think.”

It had been a while; almost a month. A little experiment to see how things really were in his head—and okay, maybe his heart too—about Yuuri. He’d resisted the call of the pink silicone dildo, his favorite, on even the worst of days, choosing to rub one off shower. Just in case the next time he saw Yuuri, the words finally came and they could start to try things out. 

Just in case—he kept things tight. But Yuuri remained blissfully oblivious of Viktor’s panic and attempts to signal his attraction, and the words just wouldn’t come.

So Chris got the spoils. And Viktor finally, finally got fucked.

The pleasurable feeling suddenly stopped building. Viktor whined, and then pouted for good measure, a sign for Chris to keep going. 

But the other man didn’t comply; he simply sunk all the way into Viktor, stabilising himself on his forearms. Bottoming out did wonders for the sensation in Viktor’s rim; the stretch in his legs, the stretch in his ass and the sensation of fullness. 

Extremely aroused. Split in half. Completely exposed. 

Why wasn’t Chris moving?

“You looked a little lost in dreamland,” murmured Chris, green eyes curious. “Thinking about that guy from Skate Canada? Or—” he made a moue of distaste “—am I losing my touch? Silver not good enough for you?” 

Oh, so he wanted to talk while his dick was up against Viktor’s prostate! Nothing like show and tell when he was at his most vulnerable.

“Chris,” Viktor purred, dragging the syllables out. “Why are we talking when we could be  _fucking_ ?” 

“Why are you thinking when you don’t want to think?” 

Viktor bit out a laugh. He clenched his ass, if only for a little revenge. Chris shuddered, a dazed expression spreading across his face. “ _Touche_ . At least you don’t call me baby.” 

“Oh, so you’re into that then.” A deep thrust that made Viktor moan. If only it wasn’t disrupted by Chris teasing, saying things like, “ _Mon vilain? Mon bebe_ ?”

“Gross! Ew. Shut up shut up shut up. Get moving!”

“Not until you tell me what’s got you thinking when you said you don’t want to.” A little shimmy of his hips pushes him up against Viktor. The pressure is so nice, so much, and Viktor can’t help but let out a moan into the pillow, covered with his hair.

He faces him again. Viktor blows a strand off his face. Then Chris leans in for a kiss, easy touches of lips that feel nice. A little feral, a little tongue, a little teeth. He pulls away.

“So. We’re at an impasse, Viktor. Who’s the guy? I don’t move until you spill.”

“Hah! There’s more ways to do that than you think.” Viktor placed his hand on his own cock, trapped between them, and started to jerk at it, spreading the precum and the sweat to ease the friction. 

Fuck, that felt good.

Chris clicked his tongue. “Impatient little brat.” 

Finally, he started moving again. His pace picked up, almost punishing—skaters’ thighs and legs were amazing, thought Viktor pleasantly, as each jolt of pressure pushed him back higher and higher into the bed, until he had to push at the headboard with his hands.

Coming almost felt like a letdown after all that sweet pressure in his belly. He let go in quick bursts, his orgasm crashing over him. A full-bodied sigh, then the slick feeling of his own cum against his front.

Chris kept pounding into him. Viktor jolted, oversensitive, but just kept letting little noises loose, unable to hold himself in. His thighs burned from holding himself up in the air for so long. He could only imagine how tired Chris must be—then the other man let out a few deep cries from the back of his throat, and collapsed onto him.

Viktor could smell his shampoo and sweat gathered in the small corner between his ear and blonde curls. “Let’s clean up, and then I’ll tell you,” he whispered.

Chris groaned in annoyance. “Let me at least catch my breath. So demanding.”

They kissed in the shower, a little bit of a slowdown after the bed. The fluffy bathrobes at this hotel felt nice against Viktor’s skin, red from the heat and the exercise; they placed their orders for room service, a little bit of a cheat after a competition, and Chris pulled the story out from him like teeth as they feasted on  _coq au vin_ at midnight.

“So. He’s the instructor then. This Yuuri? The age-appropriate one. The first soloist 27-year-old one.”

Viktor nodded. The sauce was pretty good, the meat soft. Perfect after sex.

“And you’re...” Chris made a motion with his hands that could have been vulgar in any country. “Hung up over him? Trying to get over him? Trying to bed him? Come on, Viktor, give me a hint, at least.”

Viktor rolled his eyes, then stabbed at his meal. “I’m trying to figure out if he’s interested. No go so far.” 

Chris wrinkled his nose. “Have you considered that maybe he’s straight? He’s a danseur but you never know!”

“He’s not. Definitely not.” Viktor coughed into the napkin. “I caught him in bed with another man. One of those sex-on-legs types from the Bolshoi.”

“Aha, so he is interested, but—” Chris pointed at him and emphasized every syllable “—not in you!” 

That hurt. More than Viktor thought it would. 

“Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve been trying to put the moves on him for…” Viktor counted his fingers. June, July, August… “Close to six months now? Okay, fine, for maybe four of those he had a girlfriend. A cute girlfriend with big breasts who danced on a pole.” 

“But he’s single now, you said?”

“Yeah. And he called me his best friend. While combing a hand through my hair, after dancing with me after I had a bad day, while hugging me—”

Chris tried to hide his laughter, but failed, squishing his face into a nearby pillow. Viktor could see his shoulders shaking from the effort. 

“Who would have thought? Viktor Nikiforov has finally met his match. All those broken hearts you’ve left behind, and now when you fall, you fall so deep for a man who  _friend zones_ you and gives you attention. But not the kind you want from him!”

“They just broke up a month ago. I’m taking my time,” Viktor grumbled. “And friends doesn’t mean no sex. I mean,” he gestured back and forth between them, “look at us!”

“But clearly your Yuuri has different ways of operating. So, you’re not even interested in being a rebound? I thought you’ve been trying since summer!” 

“Ugh, it’s not that. It’s really not that. I’m not even sure? It’s like … you know all those book recommendations I’d been asking you for? The really trashy romance ones? I tried to get him into those but he just laughed through the first one and texted me every time he found something hilarious. It was like … I don’t know, Chris. I want to sleep with him, I really do. I definitely have a huge crush on him. He’s not a sex-on-legs type, _il n’est pas le bombe, oui! Mais mon dieu,_ you should see him in tights, his legs and I think his dance belt can’t really quite contain him. And when he holds me—”

“When he holds you?!”

“He’s my instructor, so of course he has to get up, close and personal to correct me sometimes. And we—” Viktor blushed at the memories, “we hug a lot now. He lets me hug him, rather, whenever I feel needy or off or … just because. Mostly in private but … yeah. Sometimes, after class. He’s really good.” 

“At hugging?” Chris cocked an eyebrow. “At moving his hands? At holding you?”

“All of that. And I just want to kiss him so badly, but then every single time I’m about to ask, he’ll look at me in this way where his eyes light up and I sort of have to back down because then he’s got an amazing idea in his head for choreography, and it just…”

“You look like you’re about to explode.”

“Because I am. Because seeing him think makes me want to kiss him even more! Makes me want to shake his shoulders and scream at him—Hello! I am here! I am  _very_ interested! Please! Take me!”

Chris put his cheek in the palm of his hand, and whistled, a slow wheezy sound that ended in a little trill. “Viktor. Are you sure you’re not…”

“Using him as an emotional crutch? I’ve thought about that.” He twirled a lick of hair as he recalled all the hard thinking he’d done about it. “No. Definitely no. Maybe sometimes, but it’s reciprocal? Like, we do it for each other.”

“And you can’t just ask him out on a date because?”

“Because it’d make things awkward if he said no. Because I can’t even tell if he’s interested. In that. In me. In kissing me. Maybe he just sees me as a friend, really. Which would suck.”

Chris could only tut at him, amused. “Viktor. Let me be a good friend in your time of need.”

Viktor snorted. “Okay?”

“I think you’re in too deep.”

“No! No way! Definitely no, I’m not.” 

“Viktor.  _Cheri_ .  _Tu es tombé amoureux de lui, n’est ce pas?”_

“ _Non! Ferme la bouche!_ He’s just someone cute who I’m really good friends with whom I wouldn’t mind kissing … and maybe sucking off … and having inside me, after a really nice date at Dolcetto … but love? I don’t think it can be that  _serious_ . That’s going too far, Chris!”

“If I’m right, and all those texts you’ve been sending me are about the same guy and not, I don’t know, about several new boy toys you’ve picked out of Vaganova who happen to all dance and go to Kino concerts and let you lean your head on their shoulder while watching a mermaid stripper movie, then you’re in too deep.” 

Viktor whined some. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear, and it chased all the pleasant relaxation of sex away. He said as much. 

“What was it you said? He lets you hug him, you listen to each other, you see each other almost everyday, he’s taking care of Makka while you’re away. It’s like you skipped the sex and went straight to to—”

“No, Chris! I mean it. No way. Absolutely no way.” He clattered his fork back onto his plate. “This is already confusing enough. Think about it. What if—what if I make a mistake? I like him a lot, sure, but is that really worth ruining our friendship? Calling it love?”

“What if acknowledging it, actually  _talking_ to him, perhaps brings you this so-called  _deep_ ,” and here Chris looked a little naughty, “relationship you’ve been whining to me about? It’s not like you to not take chances. And if he can impress a Bolshoi principal that much, then he clearly knows how to use it.”

“Because I made that mistake last time!” It went unnamed, but that was how Georgi and he had gotten to where they were now, barely talking. “Because I don’t want to lose him. I really don’t.”

“So if that means you have to watch as he gets whisked away by someone else...?”

“God, no, Chris! Don’t—ugh, now I don’t feel relaxed  _at_ all.  _Arrête de me stresser.”_

“Think about it for a second. Fine, you don’t want to be a rebound. You don’t want to ruin your friendship. But you are literally in the best position out of anyone to start something with him, even if you have to wait for a little bit longer. And you miss all the shots you don’t take.”

“Is that from a basketball movie? Is Thibault into basketball?”

Chris waved a hand, dismissive. “Don’t talk to me about him.”

“Looks like we’re both using each other then.”

“Well. If you insist. You know what they say. Perhaps a bit unwise since we’re public figures but—” his green eyes grew deep and warm “—you  _can_ get over him, by getting under someone else. Me, preferably. Or wait. I’ve changed my mind. You can top next round. Maybe after a nap.”

Viktor snorted and refocused on his plate, pushing around the peas. Chris was a bit of a nag about feelings when he found a point to push and prod at, but sex? He had the best ideas. 

So no. Things weren’t quite that serious. And if they actually were … well, Viktor had more important things to focus on, like drawing out a series of toe-curling orgasms from Chris with his mouth, with his fingers, with his cock. Then back and forth, until they slept through three alarms and woke up sticky and sore in the morning to Yakov’s heavy knocks.

And besides, it  _wasn’t_ love. He'd seen his parents break apart, he’d even thought it was love the first few times around but—but Viktor had always been wrong, hadn’t he? Always hoping and wishing, and jumping to conclusions before the other party could even get across, verbally or with actions, why they actually didn’t think it was. 

Viktor was always a little too much. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russians use jam in tea like others use honey and sugar cubes - https://teaperspective.com/jam-in-tea/
> 
> Christian Louboutins are known for their bright red heel. You can sort of tell what kind of person Danyl is from that - http://www.gasparo-brand.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/christian-louboutin-so-kate-120-patent-leather-pumps-black-womens-black-pumps_3.jpg
> 
> Like most people, I am stuck with no places to travel to and I really miss beaches and the Balkans look really pretty. Imagine a romantic getaway gone bad once they got back to Russia, basically - https://www.themediterraneantraveller.com/best-beaches-balkans/
> 
> The Royal Opera House in London has a diverse corps de ballet with dancers from almost every country with many coming from its feeder school White Lodge, but it has received criticism for making it really difficult for born-and-bred British dancers to get jobs with the company. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'd love to know what you thought in the comments. And they also help me keep writing!


	6. vogue and tasteful nudity, my ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their friendship deepens. Georgi gets suspicious of how close they're growing and reminds Viktor of his own missteps. Yuuri opens up more and reaches out to Viktor on his own. A few close calls give the Russian skater an inkling into what the other man’s thinking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update schedule? What update schedule? I don't know her.
> 
> I’m back, after a trip to the emergency room for a really nasty skin infection and several really late nights at work. Christmas is upon us, and there will be more updates in the near future (say, maybe five chapters in the next two weeks) because there’s a certain event in this AU I’d like to time with the New Year. 
> 
> Did you know that if you try to put 22k words into AO3’s editor, it will crash on you? Learned my lesson there, after multiple tries.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

**Le fisc de l’amour - David Numwami / De la vitesse à l’ivresse - Poom / La Javanaise - Madeleine Peyroux /** **Baby blue - King Krule**

They met again the Monday after Viktor had gotten back, catching each other’s eyes in a quick, thrilling moment as Yuuri clocked the creak of the studio door opening. 

Official Vaganova policy was that one waited outside, politely, for the previous class to finish. But it was five minutes past that, and Viktor was impatient. Not necessarily for class, but to see the man who was fast becoming his favourite person, especially after the phone call right before he boarded, followed by photos of Makkachin. 

Even if he was terrified of saying it out loud to anyone except his beloved poodle, currently angling at him for treats ...

“Oh my god, Makka, I think Chris is right,” he’d said to her upon his return. She’d been let back into his apartment before Yuuri left for evening pole classes, and the man himself was nowhere to be found. But there was dinner on the table, just a smidgen south of what his nutritionist would recommend—with a banana! A reference to a private joke between them that had begun the morning after with Chris—and a note that said he’d see Viktor tomorrow at ballet.

“Makka, do you think I’m in too deep? Do you think he’s noticed, which is why he keeps ignoring all my hints?” Viktor pouted, petting her after she’d been fed and given water, like the big baby she was.

“Woof,” Makka replied, “Woof woof woof," before nuzzling her wet nose into his hand. Not very helpful at all.

He didn’t dare say more about the weight of his feelings, how he just wanted to squeal into a pillow because really, what else could he do? What else could he do but change Yuuri’s ringtone to the dancing trills of Lovefool just so that he’d stop checking his texts rabidly? 

Did just-friends do this sort of thing? He even restrained himself from contacting Yuuri further aside from a quick ‘thank you so much!!! I was planning on ordering food but you’ve saved my diet,’ even though he just wanted to call him down and lay a big kiss on his annoyingly pink mouth to show him how _thankful_ Viktor was.

Not that it even helped. He still looked anyway, and had to breathe slowly every time he opened his messages. It was like having a little heart attack every time Yuuri texted.

And now in the studio, there was a nod, and a small smile that made the dimples bloom on Yuuri’s face, before he turned his attention back to his students. The fifth year couples did their sequences in pairs, as partnered _chaines_ turned into supported _adagios_ , into _penches_ , into _pirouettes_. They marked the places where the girls should have been lifted into the air, struggling for breath as Yuuri called out corrections before dismissing them.

It was November, and the trees had stood bare and empty of foliage as he’d walked to the metro this morning in lieu of the cold wind that blew from the gulf. Barely two months left before the annual Christmas showcase—which Lilia made sure Viktor did not miss on pain of a scolding about not appreciating the arts that had shaped him into a beautiful skater—and even less time than that till the Grand Prix Final.

Of course, Viktor was nervous—what defending champion wouldn’t be, after an injury? At least Mila would be there with him in Innsbruck, and little Yura, although Georgi had missed the Final by a point. But perhaps he medalled, perhaps he even won gold again … then maybe, just maybe, he’d find the courage to ask Yuuri out on a date, celebrate the New Year together, maybe even kiss that lovely mouth that twisted wry and amused, and called out—

“Viktor! Let’s get started?” 

The same playful voice in his daydreams shook him out of them. Yuuri held his surprised gaze, and he tried to smile back as he got to his feet, just as teasing, if a little shaken, from the surprise. Mila giggled as Viktor joined the rest of them at the barre, slipping on his shoes in a hurry. 

It should have been easy to ask Yuuri if he was free after this, go out for dinner then walk around till it got too cold to bear, then skedaddle back to their apartment block. As it stood, he did try, lingering on the edges of the other man’s personal space whilst everyone packed up for the day. And there Yuuri was, shrugging on a jacket and fixing his spectacles before aiming a smile over at Viktor, eyes bright behind the glass.

“Welcome back, Mr. Gold Medallist,” Yuuri congratulated, before opening his arms wide. Wary of the sweat drying on his skin, of how icky he might feel—but to hell with it. He might have smelled, but Viktor just walked forward and let Yuuri hug the breath out of him, the feeling of it warm and all-encompassing 

Finally! God, it felt like breathing, and they didn’t let each other go for what felt like forever. 

“I missed you,” he murmured, both hoping and afraid that Yuuri would catch it.

He registered movement as he blinked his eyes open, nose nestled in the crook of Yuuri’s shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Georgi gave them a long onceover before heading out. 

The door slammed shut in his wake, jolting them apart. Yuuri blinked at him, then lifted a hand to palm at his neck, rubbing at the spot where Viktor’s nose had been. 

“I—Yeah,” he began. The dimples began to show up as the corners of his mouth lifted. “Welcome back. You were really amazing.”

Viktor smiled back like an idiot. He fought the urge to pull at Yuuri’s sleeve, to bring the other man into another hug and to rest his face on the muscle of his shoulder, to smell the skin between his jaw and neck. Just stay that way the rest of the evening.

It should have been easy to ask, “Are you free tonight? Let’s get dinner and watch something and chill!” with the plan being: _I’ll slowly place my fingers near yours till we end up accidentally holding hands_. For that was what Chris and he had discussed—slow, but sure overtures, more of letting Yuuri know Viktor was there and definitely interested with little pointed flirtations and invites, long looks and a significant, consistent decrease in the physical space between them … and then maybe things would fall into place, because it seemed like anything as overt as ‘Can we go on a date tomorrow’ would send the other man skittering off like a scared animal.

Viktor didn’t want to scare him. So instead, Viktor’s mind blanked from nerves and all he could say back was, “Thank you. It means a lot. And your advice really helped.”

 _Thank you?! It means a lot?!_ What he really meant was— _I missed you so much and I’m scared to admit why, but I want to hug you so badly again. I’m so happy to see you._ But Viktor kept that all shut behind his smile full of teeth. Maybe his arms trembled on the strap of his duffel at the force of trying not to loop them around Yuuri. 

“You keep saying that, but all I did was adjust your arms,” Yuuri stated, shrugging his backpack on. He looked slender and rugged in his sweats, the UnderArmour logo emblazoned on his chest in grey. 

Now that Viktor thought about it, he wore a lot of UnderArmour. Maybe Viktor could get him that as a gift? 

“Yuu-chan and I thought you were amazing.”

“Oh. You watched it with her?” They might have been broken up, but somehow it still burned Viktor’s blood to hear how close they still seemed. What if Yuuri fell into bed with her again? What if they got back together? Then there went all of Viktor’s chances! But no, he could be calm, he could collect data first then decide on a plan of action. 

He made a mental note to schedule something with her soon, do a little snooping of his own. “Maybe we can talk more about it over dinner, if you’re free today?”

Yuuri looked about ready to answer—then came the clacking of heels on the wood. 

Lilia had arrived, sharp and well-dressed (in yellow that looked fantastic on her and horrendous on everyone else) as always even in the sweltering heat of the studios at Vaganova. 

Just like that, dinner plans went out the window, for Yuuri had to help with Christmas showcase rehearsals.

“There is his own performance, of course,” Lilia tacked on, with the kind of elegant and dismissive hand wave that Viktor had tried to copy at 14 and given up on. “At the very least, it’ll give you good reason to watch this year, Vitya.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t mention anything about that.”

“It was a, ah—last minute thing,” Yuuri commented, shooting a pointed look at Lilia. “It was supposed to be a surprise.” 

A surprise for whom? There was no time to find out, as Lilia shooed Viktor off and out of the studio, but not before Yuuri had reached out to pat him on the shoulder and murmur, “I’ll text you, okay?”

He did. Eventually. 

There wasn’t much to do that evening after physical therapy except chores, and walking Makka, and staring down the tunnel of the one to two hours he had free before bed time. He decided on a bath to relax. Pinning up his hair, he sunk into the suds and the water that smelled of roses.

After that was done, there was the question of what to read, what to do as he laid himself under the duvet … there were two new books he’d bought at the airport; the copy of Natsuo Kirino’s _Out_ that he’d borrowed from Yuuri on a whim after seeing it in his backpack two weeks ago, still unread. His phone lay on the side table with the screen dark, and fine, he should be responding to texts and emails from his mother, Chris and ugh, maybe Hiroshi, but that could wait, and there was the email from Natalya about the new measures for his fan mail after the last fiasco—and oh! A text from Yuuri.

_Sorry I took so long. Just got back. Do you want to call?_

Exclamation points filled his head. A call? 

He’d read that right. A call! 

“Makka, he wants to call me!” Viktor gushed, and Makka only looked at him for a long moment before woofing some, then laying her head down again to sleep as if to say, _cool, good for you_.

The conversation itself was everything and nothing at once. Some chit chat asking how each other was in the hours since, trying to get more information out of Yuuri about his performance and failing. 

“Fine, be that way,” Viktor whined. 

Yuuri just laughed. “You can be patient, can you? Come to the showcase, see for yourself.” Patient? 

Yes, Viktor was exceedingly patient, waiting for Yuuri to pick up on all his signals. He could almost be a saint, from how long he’d been stuck in this weird in-between of friends and more than that.

“Anyway,” Yuuri began. “The qualifier in France … tell me more about what was going through your head when—”

They talked about the competition and remarking on other skaters’ routines that Yuuri had liked. Viktor had to beg off discussion to quickly browse through Youtube to find footage, excusing himself with “I was getting ready and couldn’t watch them all!”

“There was one guy, er, with the mesh and the straps—”

“Chris! You mean Chris, right? The Swiss skater? Ohhh, he really had to convince his coach about the whole concept. And it works for him! I could never do all that mature _eros_ he’s doing, he’s brilliant at it.”

Yuuri snorted. “You know him pretty well, I take it?”

“He’s my friend! A really good friend,” Viktor said, as he recalled with a squirm about just how _good_ Chris had been after the gala. “He’s a lot of fun to be around.” 

But not as fun as being with Yuuri, of course, based on how that Bolshoi principal had commented on their morning after, despite Viktor’s intrusion—possibly even better?

Ugh. he had sex on the brain again. He needed to stop. Yuuri was talking. 

“Oh, uh, yeah. Yuuko liked his costume a lot, and his programme—” Yuuri swallowed, clearing his throat as a car honked in the distance. Maybe he had his windows open? “—was. Well. Very provocative. As was his behavior in the kiss and cry.”

“Yeah, he’s like that,” Viktor laughed, feet pressing into the cushion at the end of the couch. “He’s really sweet in private though.”

He heard the _schick_ of a window being closed over the line. “I see. Have you guys been friends long?”

“Yes! We met two years ago, at Euros! He was so innocent-looking back then, like a male version of Heidi,” Viktor teased. “Look at him now, all grown up. He really changed after we went to that nude beach in Barcelona last year … ” 

It had been meant to entice, to get Yuuri thinking in the directions Viktor wanted. Perhaps it did have the intended effect, but instead, Yuuri grew quiet. 

“I guess you two are close, huh?” Yuuri asked. His tone had changed, less curious and more closed off all of a sudden. 

“Yes? Before you, and after Makka, he’s like my closest friend, you know?”

“It sounds like—well. Like you two have something going on. Long distance?”

A prescient sense of doom made Viktor aware that Yuuri had taken his words the wrong way. “No, no, no! He and I are nothing like that, he’s just my friend! Well, fine, he and I have fun sometimes, but there’s no feelings, seriously!”

“I see.” A door creaked open. “Good for you.”

“He listens to me when I want to bitch about things, but honestly, we don’t see each other enough for it to really work. And I’m really clingy, which wouldn’t work for him at all. Besides … I wouldn’t want to share if it was something serious, and he’s a little too ... Hmm.”

“Too what?”

“I used to be like that? Wanting to just be with anyone and everyone whom I found attractive enough.” He settled into his pillow, watching Makka snore from her dog bed against the wall. The light of his lamp bounced off the glossy cover of the book he’d borrowed from Yuuri. “Chris will still, well, try anything and anyone once. Like, not in a dangerous way, of course! But yeah … I got tired of having sex with strangers, though it was fun at first. He still isn’t.”

“Huh.” The sound creaked across the line, caught in Yuuri’s throat, incomplete. “But you still do things with him, it sounds like?”

“Yeah. And I know you don’t want the details—” and at that, Yuuri chuckled, although it sounded rather flat “—but it’s because I had a bit of a PR nightmare earlier this year when someone leaked my nudes.”

“What. What—I’m so sorry. That’s terrible!” Yuuri called out, indignant. 

The volume broke through the call, causing Viktor to pull his phone away from the sudden reverb. “Oh no, sorry about yelling, I didn’t mean that, but—Viktor, you’re just 20, aren’t you?”

“What does age have to do with it?”

“I mean, it’s—you’re barely legal and people are already doing that. It really sucks. Fine, it’s shitty of them to do that no matter what age you are. I just—I really don’t know what to say. God.”

“I wouldn’t, either. But it comes with the territory, I guess.” Viktor sighed into his pillow. It was nice talking to Yuuri in the comfort of his bedroom like this, although it would have been much better if the topic had been different and the man himself was here to hold him through the long memories of why he’d sworn off casual sex. “It’s worse for the ladies. I’m not looking forward to having to talk to Mila about that once she’s legal.”

“Oh. Just like ballet. Ugh,” Yuuri muttered. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Didn’t you tell me that, before you gave me that Kirino book? Base instincts overriding our higher mental facilities, but that’s just an excuse. People think it’s fine to be terrible to famous people, I guess.” Viktor said. “I can’t believe I’m saying something so intellectual before bed time.”

A small laugh, that made Viktor smile on his end. “Still, it was absolutely terrible of him to do that …”

“I don’t deny that. And he was a—well. I know you don’t remember the club, but he was someone I brought home that night we danced.” 

“What? Oh, oh my god, I—” Yuuri huffed. “That’s—dammit,” he cursed, the words crisp over the line. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have—okay, fine, we didn’t know each other then. But I would have done something if—Ugh! I’m really bungling this. Dammit.”

Yuuri kept trying to find the right words, finally coming up with: “Fine, bodies are great, but who would want to see someone naked without their consent? Consent is great, consent is sexy, consent is—alright. I’m going to shut up before I sound like a safe sex ambassador.”

Viktor smiled to himself. Even when fumbling for the right words, Yuuri was adorable. If anything, talking about this gave him an idea to steer the conversation in a better direction. “I agree, but I’ll admit that I can get why my nudes might be interesting to people. Because … have you seen me naked? I look _incredible_.” 

Yuuri squeaked, although it soon turned into a nervous chuckle. “Ah. Yeah. Alright— yeah no, wait, I mean—I guess? I wouldn’t really know.” 

He swallowed, the gulp audible over the call.

Viktor rolled over to the other side, staring at the empty space next to him, wondering if he could ever convince Yuuri to come over for a sleepover. An adult sleepover. “We’ll need to fix that.”

“Viktor!”

He couldn’t help but laugh—Yuuri was so easy to tease. “Anyway. It’s fine, Natalya and I solved it already.”

“That’s good. That’s good! On behalf of that dickhead, though,” Yuuri said. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about it. I’d beat him up and make him regret the day he ever saw you, if I could. I’d glitterbomb his house, I’d slash his tires, I’d—”

“Yuuri! So sweet, and I really don’t doubt that. Thank you.” It was difficult not to squee at the way Yuuri said all those things, how protective he sounded, so he hid the sound with his pillow before speaking again. 

“But yeah, it’s why I stick to friends now when I do want sex. At least I know they won’t do anything funny with my pictures or when I’m asleep.”

“I see. That’s smart. I should—I should probably do the same. I think.” 

Maybe that was the opening he’d been waiting for.

“Yuuri, actually, about that—” He stopped himself before he could say the words, because he’d come up blank. It felt like there was no going back if he threw them into the space between them. 

“Hm?” Yuuri yawned, the sound unfurling over the static. 

“Do you think that—that we’re close enough to … I don’t know. Maybe? Do an overnight stay?”

“What do you mean?”

The silence yawned between them, as Yuuri waited for Viktor to complete his sentences, interspersed with his own sleepy sounds. God, why was this so hard? To ask his best friend to stay the night, to share a bed, to talk in the dark and maybe, finally, tell him he wanted to be more than friends, but he wasn’t sure what to call that that wasn’t so heavy as _boyfriend, lover,_ and that wasn’t so crass as _fuck buddy,_ nor flippant like _friend with benefits._

Viktor wanted more than just simple benefits. He wanted it all, wanted the sex and the kissing but he also wanted Dolcetto and walks with Makka and the books and the dancing and the naps and—funny how the tables turned.

“You could sleep over, one of these days?” Because Viktor was a coward, and couldn’t just ask for what he really wanted, which was a date, with romance and sleepovers and cuddles that turned into a situation requiring condoms, lube and maybe his collection of sex toys. “We could make popcorn and drink wine and watch B-movies. We could cheat on our diets a little bit! Come on, doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Mmm, I guess…” Yuuri’s voice drifted off. Another yawn. “Remind me in the morning? ‘M tired.” 

“Alright, I will.” Viktor switched off the light and settled into his pillows. “Good night, Yuuri.”

“Good night, Viktor. I mi—I miss Makkachin, give her a hug for me.”

“I’ll do that. But you don’t miss me, too?” Viktor teased.

“I saw you almost everyday before you left,” Yuuri mumbled sleepily. “But it’s funny, how much I look for you when you’re not there. Just two days ago … I was reading Call Me By Your Name and wanted to text you about it.” His voice drifted in and out in volume. “But then… you were busy. Strange, isn’t it ...”

His voice petered off Yuuri started to snore lightly into the line. 

And yet his words left Viktor’s heart pounding, every beat echoing in his chest. The call ended with his trembling fingers and a sharp _click_.

It truly was strange, how Yuuri made him both swoon and sigh, from the sweetness and from the little bursts of heat that went through Viktor when they’d shared long looks over dinners, the brushes of their hands, the glimpses of the clean lines of the other man’s torso whenever his thermals rode up. 

But it was lovely. They talked about so many things other than skating, and about skating too.

Maybe he was in love, after all. 

He fell asleep thinking of that, dreaming amorphous shapes that made him come to with a soft gentleness before the ringing of his alarm. The realisation made him float through Thursday, nailing his jumps and his run throughs, and volleying back and forth with Yakov on the mystery-turned-puzzle of his success percentage with the quad flip. He watched tape after lunch and wrote down notes for new programmes next season, running through music choices on Spotify from all the little scribblings in his notebook from conversations with Mila, with Georgi, with Yuuri.

Pliometrics came and went, followed by physio. And when it was time to go home for the day, he religiously avoided checking his phone for texts, wanting to savor them for when he reached his flat so he could send back pictures of Makka looking adorable next to shrubs and bushes and chasing squirrels. 

Besides, Yuuri replied quicker in the evenings. 

But of course Georgi had to be a killjoy, just as Viktor was in the process of stripping off his jockstrap to get ready for a shower in the locker rooms.

“You’ve slept with him already, haven’t you?” The other man asked, while folding his shirt into his bag. “Mila’s noticed, too. You don’t act like that unless—”

“Are we really talking about this here, Zhora?” Viktor said slowly, turning to face him with a smile that was all teeth. 

Luckily, there was no one else in the locker rooms, everyone having gone back for the day. But that also meant that there was less body heat to keep the space warm, and so the skin of his naked body broke out into goosebumps from the air. The chatter of his own teeth didn’t deter him. 

They’d talked about this before, about other people. 

He caught the other man’s eyes lingering on the curve of his waist, how the gaze dragged towards the furrow of his hip, the swell of muscle on thighs made thick by power pulls and jumps and leg days—before steeling his expression and snapping back up to say something again.

“Don’t be like that.”

“Just when I’m naked too,” Viktor countered. “You _really_ have a talent for catching me like this. I’d almost think you’re after something!”

Georgi levelled a gaze at him that said he wasn’t falling for the bait. Fine, they’d argued like this before, but Viktor wasn’t in the mood to turn things physical even with how he’d clocked the direction of Georgi’s eyes. 

“Vitya. You always want something when you turn this sweet and attentive with someone. What do you want from him? Sex? Choreography?”

“Is it so hard to believe that I could be just friends with a man? And just want to be around him?”

“With the way you look at him like you’re angling to eat him up?” Georgi deadpanned. “No.”

Fine, he was sort of right, and Viktor was obvious in his attraction, but contrary to the way Mila teased him about his efforts—he didn’t want just sex, he wanted _everything_. “Zhora. Believe me when I say no. Nothing’s happened,” Viktor stated. “We’re just friends!” 

Unfortunately. But Viktor was working on it.

He made a sharp turn to head for the showers. The other man stumbled into the next stall moments later, as the water hit his skin. They couldn’t talk like this, not really—so Viktor blissfully ignored Georgi and his nosiness while the water soothed his aches and pains.

There was no escaping him as they got dressed, though. Georgi asked again. 

“Zhora, this is literally _none_ of your business,” Viktor drawled, as he shrugged a thermal on. The sweater that came next did terrible things to his hair, but it was easy enough to blow dry into obedience. “The answer is _no_. He and I are friends.”

“Excuse me if I have a hard time believing that with how close you walk to each other. And the long looks. And that hug yesterday, anyone with eyes could see there’s something going on between the two of you.”

“What business is it of yours, anyway? I thought we’d agreed that the two of us and love, even talking about it, was never a good idea unless it was for programmes.”

He tried to grab his hairdryer and plug it into the socket, but to do that he had to walk past Georgi. The other man caught him by the arm, and remained firm with his grip.

“You don’t exactly have a good track record with this. I’m just worried. Concerned.”

“About whom?” Viktor mused. The chill of the room combined with his wet hair made his teeth chatter slightly. “Did Mila put you up to this, or Lilia? You can tell them to ask me directly.”

“Vitya.”

“Are you worried about me? Or Yuuri?” He wondered, tapping a finger against his mouth. “It’s up to us to figure things out, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be like that. You know he’s just broken up with Yuuko, and here you are, trying to get him into bed with you. Won’t that just hurt him?“

“Who said anything about hurting him? Why are you so suspicious?” Viktor asked, innocent. “At least let me dry my hair before I get sick. It’s freezing in here. We can talk about this over dinner if you’re so worried.”

They made a quick stop to grab nutritionist-approved meals tasting of cardboard at the cafeteria before it closed. Then came the question of where to talk; the rink was completely out of the question, with the evening guard eyeing them suspiciously from how they lingered in the lobby. It was too cold to stay out in the parks. So Georgi’s tiny studio ten minutes away by train it was.

The heating stuttered to life as they took their places at the tiny table in the kitchenette, enough for three people if they didn’t mind bumping elbows. The questions came back as soon as they’d cleared the first spoonfuls of their food to quiet their stomachs. 

Viktor set his fork down. “First things first. You’re not gay for him, aren’t you?”

Georgi almost spat his mouthful out. “No! He’s not even my type, Vitya!”

“How would I know, with how you come on to me like that, saying you’re worried and not to hurt him—besides, I know for a fact you’re definitely not straight, hm?”

The other mans’ gaze turned sharp. “Of course you had to bring that up.” 

“I don’t smell any perfume or see any girls’ clothes or underwear lying around sooo—” Viktor motioned vaguely to the living room, and the opened doorway that showed a bed just off the corner “—I guess you’re in between. Is that why you’re getting in my business?” He smirked. “Because you’re bored? Zhora, if you really wanted to sleep with me again, all you had to do was ask!

“Although,” he added, tapping a finger to his lips. “I don’t think I’d be interested, if I were so hot after Yuuri after all …”

“That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” Georgi said, through gritted teeth. “Stop making this about you.” 

“Really?” Viktor blinked, eyes wide. “Then what is it about? Why would you invite me over to your apartment for dinner otherwise? Didn’t you say you were worried?”

The other man’s face contorted, as if trying to process how the conversation had gotten wrenched away from him. “Vitya.”

“Zhora,” Viktor answered. “Cut to the chase, please.”

“What is your angle with Yuuri? And before you ask, I’m doing this because—because, well, I’ve seen you and how you treat your friends, and that man, the way he looks at you—” Georgi sighed and leaned back heavily in his chair. His fork landed with a clatter against his plate. “You’re going to hurt him if you’re not careful.”

“If you’re talking about how—”

“How you play with your food before eating it, yes. I’ve seen you do that. I’ve been on the receiving end.” His expression was pained. “Yuuri’s a good person. Don’t do that to him.”

“Why are you making it out to seem as if I’m the one with bad intentions? Fine, I flirt with him and I hug him and I spend a lot of time with him, but what stake do you even have?”

“He’s a good friend.”

“Since when have you been friends with him? I spend so much time with Yuuri already, when else does he—”

“Friday or Saturday nights when we’re not away,” Georgi supplied, pushing around his food with his fork. The cutlery glinted in the light. “He helps with the Dungeons and Dragons group I’m in, when he can.”

What. “What? And he’s never told me, I should ask him—”

“Don’t you hate D and D? The man can have a life outside of you, Vitya.” 

“But it’s a part of him I don’t know about, and now you’ve made me curious, and now I have to ask!”

“Vitya, I’d hate to lose a great dance teacher just because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.”

“Zhora! I’ll have you know I plan on asking him on a date, not just bedding him!” Viktor exclaimed, sitting up. The silverware clattered against his place, as the table shook. 

“Somehow, that sounds even worse,” Georgi grimaced. “If things go sour, Yura will never forgive you. He’s crazy about Katsuki. And Lilia might freeze you out.”

“Coming from the man who’s crazy about romance? I thought you’d be supportive. Well, fine, I haven’t told anyone about this yet but if it’ll convince you otherwise—” Viktor lifted a finger to his lips, signalling that he was trusting the other man with a secret. “—Zhora, I like him so much!”

“That’s what you said about Luca, and Mikhail, and even Danyl—” 

“Oh, will you let me finish? I think I’m—” He blinked as realisation dawned at why he was feeling so put off by Georgi’s doubt. 

Viktor’s hand shook as he gripped at his fork again. “Okay. I’m—wow, I think I’m in love with him.” 

In love! With Yuuri!

Strange. How the bare trees on his walk this morning had gotten him thinking about Yuuri’s text from last week, thanking him for helping pick a good winter coat, what with the way the winter winds blew in. How that had turned to him scrolling through their exchanges during breaks, smiling to himself at the pictures they’d shared, running through the last time they’d seen each other in person through his head—the dancing, the hugs, the electricity of that almost-kiss. 

By the time he’d reached the rink, stretching and running through his paces before Yakov came in, he’d been humming the first strains of a pop song from a Baz Luhrmann film, sketching out vague choreography on the wings of his good mood.

And now, Georgi was the first person he’d told out loud, what this all meant. Yet the other man was so unimpressed, the frown growing on the corners of his mouth. “I see.”

Did his expression change at finally knowing the exact words for how he felt? “I just realised it this morning. I like him so much, Zhora. And he—he’s so sweet to me. We take care of each other. So you don’t need to worry, at all.”

Georgi didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked extra dubious. But that was the way things were between them, he supposed—love-hate on the rink, and a strange camaraderie in love troubles otherwise.

And today, Viktor felt the need to insist all this was real, and that Georgi was doubting things needlessly. “He and I have barely kissed! But yes, we hug, and we talk about books, and you remember that Dolcetto thing we had? We’ve been meeting consistently for it every Sunday, and Yuuri knows about Danyl and—he just took care of me.” There was no need to mention the shoes, or the lingerie, or the way Viktor had fallen into a panic attack. These were all things Georgi didn’t need to be privy to. “Really, just wait. You’ll see! This will be different. I have a good feeling about him.”

Georgi pursed his lips, considering. “And how’d he react to… the news about Danyl?

“He was understanding. He asked what he could do to help me cheer up. He listened. He stayed. Isn’t that what you’re always harping about? A good relationship is built on communication? Especially when we started fighting again after that summer trip to Novgorod?”

The other man narrowed his eyes at him, considering, before turning to stab at his vegetables with his fork. “Of course you’d bring that up.”

“You’d have to admit we were very bad at the communication bit. But no matter! What was the adage again? Good relationships require work from both parties to grow beautiful, and to last, just as how short attractions never blossom without water or something…”

“Attraction is a garden, it needs love and gentle caring attention to grow,” Georgi completed, recalling the words from Lilia. “Good relationships are built on knowing the other person, and that’s why Lilia and Yakov almost divorced last year until they went on that trip to Israel.”

“Well, see, we definitely communicate better than they do! For one thing I don’t speak in huffs, grunts and yells. Honestly, Zhora, I don’t get your point—”

Georgi lifted a hand out to stop him. “Have you considered that he only sees you as a friend? Which is why he hasn’t responded to any of your advances? It’s been seven months, even the most chaste monk would have sinned by now with the way you flounce around and cling to him.”

That stopped Viktor in his tracks. “Not you too, Zhora! First Chris, now you…”

“He’s not blind, he definitely dated Yuuko, and we’ve seen how the other students look at him. He doesn’t lack for offers, and there’s been talk that the Bolshoi’s trying to scoop him up,” Georgi frowned. 

“What?” Viktor sat upright. “I knew that Mitya was up to no good, trying to lure him away from Piter—”

“Well, _you’ve_ been trying to lure him into your bed since April and have only succeeded as far as the couch! Vitya. I say this as a friend. Perhaps he’s just not that into you. Perhaps it’s time to give up. Mila’s starting to think you’re in too deep. Even I can see that.”

Frustration bloomed, replacing the joy of realising his feelings. “You wouldn’t give up,” Viktor retorted. “You’d keep sending the lady of the moment flowers, writing her poems, crying tearfully into your pillow and ask—don’t think I forgot about Lyuba. Or Darya. Or Irinka.”

Georgi quirked his mouth, before taking a slow sip of his drink. How could he be so calm while telling Viktor to put away his feelings, to ignore the promise of romance and a loving relationship when he was so close to grasping them with two hands? Viktor had been so careful this time, trying his best to not overstep and scare Yuuri away—trying his hardest not to fall so easily and trust so fast. 

So why did everyone seem to think he was going to grab Yuuri’s heart and then smash it like a crystal?

“In most cases, yes. In your case, maybe … try not sleeping with this friend. Everyone can see how you two are very close. I’d hate—” and here, Georgi shook his head, as if recalling their own uneasy detente – “to see your friendship fall apart because of your inability to keep it in your pants.”

Viktor pouted. “But Zhora, how can you even—that’s rich, coming from you.” He slapped Georgi’s forearm lightly; the other man winced. “Stop being such a killjoy. What if someone swoops in and steals him away, when I could have convinced him to stay with us if only...”

Georgi sighed. “Quit while you’re ahead and haven’t broken him, is all I’m saying. While you haven’t hurt yourself, either.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Viktor quipped, unhappy with Georgi and his worry-mongering. He put his cheek onto his palm and pouted. “Can’t you just be happy for me?”

“I’d rather spend that energy on nailing my jumps,” Georgi remarked. “Alright. If you say so. But if things go bad—don’t ask me to choose sides.”

Viktor sniffled. “You wouldn’t choose me, your rink mate?”

The other man rolled his eyes. “At least Yuuri doesn’t snipe at me to get off. Or keep taking all the gold medals. Or judge me about the girls I date. Or issue ultimatums for fun, then come crying when things don’t turn out his way.”

All sore points. “I didn’t say anything about Darya, and I helped you out after that thing with Lyuba, and we both enjoyed ourselves plenty, if I recall—” He twirled a lock of hair, platinum in the light of the tiny kitchen. The memories made him breathe a little faster, because even if he liked Yuuri … “You definitely did.”

“Vitya,” Georgi sighed, exasperated. His cheeks had turned pink, recalling that summer in all likelihood. “I thought you said you loved him? And yet here you are, saying these things. Acting like you want me to push you against the wall again. Perhaps it’s too soon to call it love, if you are so easily distracted—”

“Oh come on! Zhora, I’m just teasing.”

“Hmph. Someday you’ll say something like that and it will come back to bite you,” Georgi remarked, stabbing at his plate. “Probably sooner than you think. God is fair.”

“You aren’t even that religious!”

“You get what I mean, Vitya." Georgi's hands stilled, as his mouth settled into a frown. "Don’t treat him like you did me, Danyl... like the others.” 

  


* * *

  


There were patches of time that used to be filled with schooling and rushing through homework that had been replaced by sponsorship meetings, press engagements, dance classes, acting classes. Even in the middle of the season, he was still in demand, but more for his elfin, otherworldly looks rather than his skating—as was the case with the last-minute invite from Vogue Russia, which he didn’t even read. 

Then again, it was always helpful to be a household name for something, and it would help keep the money rolling in even after he retired—as Natalya liked to remind him—despite the kick it aimed at his schedule. Even Yakov had softened after Lilia had had a few words with him on it, letting off with a gruff ‘you’ll need to put in extra time next week’.

The clothes, the makeup, the supposed glamor of it all were always nice. And this particular brand of femininity and masculinity, all rolled into one little Vitya the skater-slash-returning king of the ice package? He could definitely pull it off, even with winter coming in on the breezes from the gulf and making him shiver as he changed outfits for the shoot. 

Things were starting to freeze over in earnest outside. Even for a winter athlete, he had little desire to stand in the cold and risk frostbite while wearing very little in the cold, all the more so when the Grand Prix was two scant weeks away. So the Kamnenny Island apartment for the shoot was a small blessing, even if the rooms were drafty.

The hairstylist at the shoot had _oohed_ and _aahed_ over his hair. “It’s too silver to be natural! What products do you use? Who does your color?” Viktor had smiled a little sleepily (which was the truth, because the call time had been at 4am) and said “What? I didn’t catch that,” in several variations until the stylist had given up. 

When he could, he sent Yuuri selfies from the chair. The other man wouldn’t be up till 7 am. By then he’d have a plethora of photos to react to, and his commentary, sweet and caring and at times quick and vicious, would keep Viktor entertained between sets. 

The makeup artist, an old lady with a silvery bob he’d worked with once before, was a lot nicer to talk to—she asked him about any boys he liked, and he blushed and said there was this ballet dancer who didn’t know he liked him but that he liked a lot … and left it at that. She cooed and told him to confess his feelings, life was too short to keep dreaming. 

She didn’t ask him so much about skating, but more about his dog, what colors he liked to use for eyeshadow, what brands he preferred, who did his makeup for competitions—he did, of course, and showed her a few looks he’d been particularly proud of. All things that didn’t just paint him as a skating machine. It was nice.

He’d been briefed on the whole concept, sent pictures of the moodboard for the shoot. There were… some interesting clothes. A lot of pretty fabric that was supposed to be draped around him, lots of sparkly jewelry that clinked when they slid down his arms. Dress shirts that were stiff and starched and cut him into straight lines and all angles. Shoes that made Lilia’s heels look like child’s play, Louboutins with shellac-red bottoms that made him grit his teeth in private at the memories they dredged up. High end leisure wear, the kind that he hoped they’d let him keep with the way they clung to every edge and curve on him, at how soft the fabric was. He didn’t mind doing a shout-out to the brands for that last one on his social media anyway, Natalya could take care of the drafts.

Upon discovering the collar and leash meant for Makka later in the afternoon, he laughed, high and pretty and a beautiful young thing. Outlandish, bedazzled with rhinestones and the kind that would make Yuuri squawk at even letting Makka wear it.

“She’d get it dirty and lose all the rhinestones!” He could imagine the dance instructor saying. “What a waste.”

The photographer, upon meeting him, held his gaze for a few seconds longer than necessary. Niko was an import from Yakutsk, up and coming at 28 for his work that blended high concept and easy personability into a photo, on his third cover for Vogue. Dark eyes, dark hair, distantly Asian features. 

“I’m a big fan,” Niko said, letting a slow look slide over Viktor in his first outfit of the day, a fluffy bathrobe. Viktor felt a slight heat flush all over his body despite the cold temperatures of the room. 

It was all supposed to be an artistic, high-fashion _one day with the king of ice skating_. Very Annie Leibowitz meets Mario Testino. But Annie Leibowitz had done a bathtub series, and Mario Testino had his towel series. So of course that meant that the first shoot of the day was one where he posed and slid around a bathtub in a flesh-toned thong while the offending hairstylist combed his wet hair just so to make sure it looked ‘sexy,’ not ‘waterlogged rat’. 

Viktor didn’t envy him the work. 

“For this next one, look at the camera as if it’s your lover, and you’re tempting them to join you,” instructed Niko, fiddling with the lens. 

“I thought this was high fashion, not softcore porn?” Viktor wondered breezily. The rest of the crew hid their laughs. 

Niko smirked. “A little bit of spice makes it interesting. Why do you think they shoot women in suits without the dress shirts?”

Well, true enough. It was easy to get into that sort of mode, and there was no full frontal nudity involved. So he thought of Yuuri, how shy the other man would be upon walking into the bathroom, how his skin would flush pink in the stream from the water. The innocent gaze he’d give him from under his eyelashes that said a hint of _take off your clothes and get in here with me_.

And in one set of shots, _come over here and make me feel good_.

Niko loved it, threw exclamations into the air about Viktor’s natural talent. The shoot kept going; it was a little strange but quaint to have his hair wrapped in a towel, with large chandelier earrings dangling from his lobes, and his body wrapped in a silk bathrobe that reminded him of Lilia and Yakov’s matching retro paisley bathrobes from the 70s. 

Next, they handed him a razor and asked him to mime shaving his leg. Viktor snorted but followed instructions. Apparently, Vogue readers wanted to know that the Hero of Russia shaved too. The truth was that he had a regular hair removal appointment every month!

 _I can’t believe they’re making me do everything I do at home on this shoot and calling it high fashion,_ he texted Yuuri. _Except I don’t shave my legs at all!_ He sent him a few of the photo proofs, carefully curated into two sets: funny and the suggestion of sultry, saved for the last. 

By then it was around 10am, and the sparse sunlight had started to trickle in through the high windows. No wonder this place was very drafty. There were no curtains!

They arranged him and the fabrics and pillows around a Chippendale sofa look alike. This part was fun and he pouted and acted at daydreaming as much as he wanted while handling a bowl of salad. It was also ridiculous, and perfect for sending along to Yuuri and Chris.

He checked his phone in between breaks. The first few replies started to come in from Yuuri. 

On his selfie with Lyuba the makeup artist: _aww she looks like she could be your aunt! long-lost aunt?_

To a photo of him sticking his tongue out and making funny faces, and making rude gestures when the hairstylist turned their back: _i’m saving this for blackmail, thanks_

To a photo of him posing with Niko during a break and the mentions of his flirtatious looks filled with intent towards Viktor: _tbh he kind of looks like that guy from Tangled but more Asian???_

And to the bathtub photos: _i thought this was for vogue… ? then why does it look like you’re not wearing anything? does russian vogue do tasteful nudity????_

Viktor chose his words carefully. _yuuuriiii of course i’m not naked in the water, i was wearing a thong! they edit it out in post. i didn’t know your mind was in the gutter today_

Another ping: _ugh of course i knew that. ignore me. but from someone who’s been down that road: don’t let them sweet talk you into doing porn_

His fingers can’t type fast enough. _!!!! yuuri wHAT tell me more!!!_

_Who made you do porn??? Was it Phichit? Was it the Royal Ballet?_

All that came back was: _not telling :|_

Of course, Viktor didn’t give up easily. _You can’t just say things like that and expect me not to ask!! Do you at least have the photos? A hint? Pleaaaaaaseeee Yuuriiiiii_

But no reply came, not even a single emoji. Viktor pouted.

Whereas Chris would have sent one just to show Viktor who was sexier and to amp up the heat, Georgi’s warnings kept him uneasy company as he waited for the next shoot to start. Yuuri kept brushing off all the things he’d tried on other people that had worked on other people—was Yuuri blind to beauty like Viktor’s because he’d been around so many others? 

Or had Viktor friend zoned himself to hell with the texts, the books, the long and involved discussion about the structure of Western vs Asian stories, his admissions about his past relationship, leaving Makka in Yuuri’s care? 

God, who knew at this point.

It was admittedly discouraging—enough that Viktor was considering letting off a little, take a breather and regroup. There was likely a simpler explanation for Yuuri being so tight-lipped and unaffected. 

For example: he must have been busy with the mid-morning classes. Yes, that was it.

But other times didn’t seem to line up with it. Playing sultry towards him and dropping hints didn’t seem to work for Yuuri at all. Either he thought Viktor was acting up, or he coughed and sputtered like during their last call, or even fell asleep on him! How disappointing, how discouraging. And even when Viktor held onto his arm as they walked back from Dolcetto, or wandered through bridges and nearby streets, pressed up against him bemoaning the cold and the wind of Russia’s winters—Yuuri’s cheeks would pinken and he’d look furtively away but no words about dates or kissing or feelings would pass through his lips.

It seemed to be the case here, again. Maybe he should just cut his losses and give up, focus on his competitions, and settle into just friendship with Yuuri.

Viktor sighed, just as they called him to attention to get ready. Curse Georgi and the way he put doubts into Viktor’s head. Now the fun had gone away and the threat of rejection, of ‘I don’t think of you that way’ loomed over him like a knife. A knife over his heart.

It felt so silly, how his mood hinged on the whims—the texts!—of one person. At least the shoot was ample distraction. 

The rest of the day’s itinerary placed a lot of emphasis on his hair, its long and silky length, how it made him look feminine at certain angles. Niko kept throwing him looks between set changes, a little low heat that when returned _could_ turn into a froth. Viktor considered it, twirling a loose curl of his hair, which at this point had been teased and hair sprayed into fluffy submission. With men, it was always the eyes and the body language more than the words.

It seemed harmless enough. Niko probably met a lot of beautiful people in his line of work; flirting with them and fluffing up their ego was part of the job. Viktor was a beautiful person. Not to mention he also enjoyed the attention, the call and response, the affirmation that it was just Yuuri’s particular brand of obliviousness, and not that Viktor was losing his touch.

It cheered him up some, enough that he felt ready to try again with Yuuri after lunch. _It’s funny how they almost didn’t want me to bring Makkachin for this shoot._

This time, the other man was a bit more forthcoming. _What! Sacrilege. Dogs are the best. Send me photos!_

_Later, when my dog walker brings her over_

_And anyways you still haven’t spilled about the porn thing_

_Come oooooon Yuuuuriiiiii I want details_

But all that came back was: 😑

Still nothing about the porn message, huh. Viktor _harrumphed_ and put his phone away. His heart could only take so much. 

So Viktor looked back, let his eyes drag over the photographer when he stood to get up from poses, teased Niko back between takes and laughed.

His dog walker brought Makka over at half past three. This late in the year, they had to hurry to catch the last strains of sunlight as the sun sunk below the horizon. The photos were beautiful even without touch up; Makka’s fur turned a beautiful copper in the sunset, his own hair the silver of mercury streaked with the sky’s blues and pinks. 

There was even a bit of melancholy in his eyes. It wasn’t hard to act that way, based on Niko’s instructions. 

This was as he was just six months ago. Not that anyone knew. Except...

The lights and the crew and Niko and being surrounded by all these people devoted to capturing his fame, his looks—funny how the questions popped into his head now. Who was he when there were no cameras or coaches or staff or fans around?

The truth of the matter—what precious little free time he had was spent with Makka. These days… Yuuri. Chris, Mila if they could spare time off their busy schedules. On his own if he had the energy to put on a look deliberately meant to hide himself, like he did now, layering on his sweater and brushing through his hair before it inevitably got stuck in a hat. At least the hairspray would hold it stiff and in shape, and then he could send the pictures over to Natalya for his IG post of the day.

Which begged the question—Who was he when he was with Yuuri? Just the two of them, reading at Dolcetto on weekends. Sketching out little routines in the studio when the thought struck either of them, texting and sending each other photos, watching movies, walking Makka, talking about anything and everything.

He’d seen Viktor sweaty and red-faced, he’d seen Viktor cry and shake from tears and the threat of a terrible ex-boyfriend. It was weird to miss someone when they lived in the same city and practically saw each other every three days. But he couldn’t help but lean into that strange ache as he changed into street clothes, glancing at his phone to check the time—and to see if anyone else texted. 

He wasn’t even denying how his feelings had mushroomed at this point, rather, he had gone back to being annoyed at how helpless he felt, waiting on someone who might _not_ even be interested in what Viktor had to offer.

Then the screen lit up with a chirp as he braided his hair, the tinkling keys of the ringtone playing through the air. 

One message. From … his heart fluttered, his stomach clenched. Yuuri!

_Do you want to get dinner tonight?_

_I’m free a little earlier_

_Yuuko took my class today_

_I’m sure you’re tired since you’ve been up since 4am so, we can do takeout!_

_There’s a new vegetarian place that opened up_

_the one we saw under construction_

Oh. 

Viktor sat back, the ends of his braid unfurling. Oh wow. 

That sounded almost like—thinking it felt dangerous. But sometimes it felt like they were dating even if they weren’t. It got confusing, especially when Yuuri let him fall asleep on his shoulder, called him before they both slept, saw him almost five times a week, sometimes went on his walks with Makka and even remembered her favorite chew toys. 

He wanted clarity. Seven months of friendship, and all that.

But he didn’t know how to ask for it, didn’t know if Yuuri was just this friendly with everyone he read books with—that Georgi apparently met him for dungeons and dragons, which mystified Viktor with all the monsters and the score sheets and the counting. Did he let Georgi just lean on him, let Yuuko pull him into hugs in public and find new ways around their diets together?

The last relationship he’d been in, Danyl had been very, very clear that he’d wanted Viktor exclusively. And the one before that. And look how well those turned out.

But these things were long dead and gone. He’d even moved out of Lilia and Yakov’s place to escape their spectra, wanting no further associations with the street corner where he’d almost been hurt except for when he passed by it, quick and determined, on the way to dinner with his coach and his coach’s wife. 

New address, new start. The doorman and the keycodes on the door helped with that, even if the press management office’s handling of the shoe situation had been disappointing.

But what was there to lose? 

He loved Yuuri’s company, sought it like flowers to the sun. His thumbs flew over the screen

_Yes yes yes!_

_I should be there pretty quickly_

_Even with traffic, maybe twenty minutes?_

_I’m coming over from Tsarkovskyy_

He’s just about sent the last text off by the time there were three quick knocks on the door. 

“Viktor, are you still here? It’s Niko.”

“Yes! Come in!” said Viktor, placing his phone on the table and resuming braiding the last of his hair. He gave it a quick shake to loosen it. There was no need to put on a fresh face; he’d liked the last look and now there was this chance to surprise Yuuri with it—sigh, like they were dating, which they weren’t!—all the better that he’d kept it on. The glimmer of eyeshadow, the lovely pink-red color of lipstick, how the colors made him look soft and otherworldly and good enough to eat. 

Maybe he’d try his luck this time, kiss Yuuri on the cheek good night, to thank him for taking care of dinner. 

Chatter from the crew cleaning up outside came in through the open door. He heard a pair of steps muffled by the carpet, until a familiar face with bushy eyebrows and almond-shaped eyes popped into the mirror.

“Thought you already left.” Niko said, smiling. “Glad I managed to catch you. Can I take a seat?”

“Of course! Help yourself. I was just resting a bit.” 

Niko remained quiet, watching as Viktor puttered about and collected his things, observing him zip up his bag before clearing his throat. “Viktor?”

“Hm?”

“ … it was great working with you today. You really have a talent for knowing what the mood was.”

Viktor shot him a quick smile and steeled himself for some chit-chat and not-too-unwelcome attempts at flirting, even though all he wanted to do right now was grab his bag and call an Uber. “Thank you! I wouldn’t call it talent, but I definitely had fun! The concept was really interesting. I’m looking forward to the photos.” 

Once he’d gotten everything, Viktor sat himself on the edge of the same couch and placed his bag at his feet. “Sorry, let me just …” He said, not really caring if he looked rude as he fiddled with his phone, tapping through the apps to book himself a ride. Then it was fifteen minutes till the driver arrived—because he’d forgotten, silly him, that today was Friday and the rush hour started _earlier_.

He spared a thought for how he should let Yuuri know he was going to be later than expected, but then Niko spoke up. “I actually didn’t mention this earlier, but … I’m a bit of a fan.”

Viktor tilted his head. His peripheral vision told him there was a hand on the couch next to his thigh. When had Niko come closer? “Oh really?” said Viktor brightly, because he was always nice to fans even when he was tired. “Thank you for your support! I hope I haven’t been too disappointing this season.”

“No, not at all! If anything, your theme this season, it’s so apt after the knee injury…” Niko grinned. “Your programs are always a joy to watch, especially your Raven Girl this season. I read the book because of you, you know? So strange and quirky.”

“Yes! It’s fantastic, isn’t it. A friend recommended the ballet, and I just fell in love with it.” It was hard not to smile at the memory; that terribly awkward afternoon when he’d first made friends with Yuuri courtesy of a phone shop, Makkachin, and Viktor’s clicking through YouTube. 

“You’re so inspiring to work with.”

“Oh? Well, that’s … ” Viktor paused, and hedged. “I’d say the same for you?”

“I mean, you just came back with a bang! And to think I almost said no to this project because—” Niko gestured broadly with his hands, and then slanted his gaze, a question in it “well, it doesn’t matter. I’m glad I said yes to the shoot today. In fact, I’d love to work with you again, even on smaller projects. Something that only you and I can bring to life.”

“Oh?” 

He felt a light touch on his knee. The browns of Niko’s eyes sparked something in Viktor’s blood, but he wasn’t sure if it was thrill he felt. “Perhaps we can talk more over dinner tonight?” 

Viktor cast a quick glance down onto his phone screen, open to the Uber booking page. Ten minutes to launch. “I don’t know about that.”

“I’m staying in the area too so we don’t have to care about the time so much,” Niko insisted.

“I see…” He blinked. Maybe he’d put on the flirting and the body language a little too much today, with the way Niko leaned in at his words. 

“What do you say, Viktor?” A slight movement brought the light graze of fingers to the edge of his inner thigh. He could feel Niko’s gaze on him, heavy and heated.

The other man had come close, so close that it was easy to—well.

Viktor had taken a breath before starting to reply. But suddenly—he was cut off, because of the pressure on his lips, warm and soft with the undercut of stubble grazing his jaw.

Ah. All too familiar. Perhaps it was that Viktor’s body was used to saying _yes_ to this sort of attention—his first response was to lean into it, to move closer, unthinking. 

They pressed and parted, small licks of the tongue. It was nice, like how hugs were nice—but the heat and smell and taste of someone else’s mouth was almost always better. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine Chris. Hiroshi. Danyl didn’t like to shave sometimes. Georgi forgot occasionally too. 

Light stubble rubbed against his cheeks. It was doubly jarring; for a moment he’d imagined it was Yuuri, with the soft lashes and the dark hair and the eyes and the Asian features before he’d closed his eyes.

Yuuri? Smooth and baby cheeked, except for those free times they’d met up after his break up with Yuuko. Not that he really had a preference, but the reminder of that difference sparked recognition.

Slowly, his brain began to catch up. 

The flavor was all wrong, sweet and tingly like he’d popped a mint beforehand. Yuuri hated the taste of mints. He’d almost spat out the small spoonful of the tester the last time they’d been at Caffe 500 all those months ago. He picked out the leaves whenever they were in his food. The one tea Viktor thought would be in his cabinets, he studiously avoided at the supermarket. His lozenges were all lemon flavored.

The hand stroked up his thigh, a strange, but not unwelcome, pressure until it was right at his hip crease, fingers grazing his own erection, slow to start. Another hand was at his shoulder, pushing at Viktor to lay himself down on the couch. 

Viktor let him. 

One hand on Niko’s chest, the other clutching his phone. His heart skittered, confused and betrayed by his body, starting to wake up to the weight and heat of Niko, how all of this is so different from what he’d expected. How, just when he thought he’d excised the allure of attractive strangers from the risks in his life, this was happening. Again!

There was something hard and hot rubbing against his thigh. 

That begged the question. Did he want to push him away? He hadn’t gotten off in what felt like forever, nor had he got the chance to have sex with anyone or anything other than his hand or toys since Chris almost three weeks ago.

But he still hadn’t forgotten Chris’ remarks, Georgi’s warnings. The way Mitya leered at him, like he was just a child. And Yuuri, saying things like “he had a great time,” always shrugging off Viktor’s affections like they were nothing, making him wonder if Viktor wasn’t being obvious enough. 

How obvious did he need to be before the other man noticed? Did he even want to go that far? Would their friendship survive?

It made him confused. It made him _angry_. Enough to keep going, kissing the other man, clawing at his shirt and letting him touch Viktor all over, press against him.

Niko mouthed at his neck, sucking at the skin. A stinging sensation and the grip of his hand on Viktor’s hip jolted him back to an awareness of where this was going—how fast this was going. 

Did Viktor want to go this fast? So soon? With a stranger?

“The others have mostly left,” Niko whispered in his ear. The heat of his breath caused Viktor to shiver.

He placed a hand under Viktor’s sweater and lightly grazed a nipple. Viktor squirmed, unsure what to feel. It felt good, in the way his body always did when touched by a relatively attractive man—but he wasn’t sure if this was the touch he wanted, right now … when he could be having dinner with Yuuri instead. 

Even if Yuuri remained painfully oblivious to Viktor’s feelings. Even if Viktor felt riled up, like a coiled spring, with a chance for release.

“We’ll have to be quiet, though.” Niko smirked. “That’ll be fun.”

His phone chirped in his hand. The Uber driver was here.

“I can get us another one. But after—” The other man trailed another set of kisses down his neck. Viktor squirmed, trying to remember what he wanted to say.

Did he want to be fucked in the backroom of a photoshoot by a man he barely knew?

“Niko?”

“Viktor,” Niko exhaled, before swooping in for another kiss. 

He could do better than this, couldn’t he? 

“Ah.” His voice caught in his throat, but finally his brain had managed to reach the rest of his body. “Niko. Stop. Please.”

Yuuri was waiting. 

And as if the other man had read his mind—his phone began to trill the notes of Yuuri’s ringtone, every beat hammering the guilt home in Viktor’s heart.

“Ignore it,” Niko rasped, pressing against him in a rush of feeling. Viktor almost moaned, but cut himself off as his ears registered the building chorus of the ringtone. 

“Niko!” He pushed at the other man’s chest. It took a few tries before Niko pulled away, disappointed. 

“I … I’m sorry. This is too fast for me.”

Everything felt off. His arms, his legs, they didn’t feel like they belonged to him. He shook himself a bit, tapped his hands on his shoulders and across his chest to bring himself back to the situation in front of him.. Beside him, Niko looked distinctly uncomfortable.

The other man cleared his throat a few times, opening and closing the hand that had touched Viktor underneath his sweater.

Viktor spoke first. 

“I–I appreciate the attention, and your offer. What we did was nice.” He coughed. “But. Let’s stay professional! I really respect your work, so I’ll have to decline. And—” he checked his phone, and blanched “—shit. I’m late!”

He ran—sprinted—out of the room after eking out a quick goodbye and grabbing his bag, Niko blinking in surprise and dismay at his speedy exit. There was barely any time to call out that he was leaving to the rest of the crew, which Natalya will scold him for on Monday. 

**Yuuri**

Got the food!

I’ll wait in my flat

Let me know when you arrive and I’ll head down, okay? :)

His fingers were lightning quick over his phone as the Uber driver honks at an intersection. The message almost types itself. 

_I’m really sorry!!!_

_I know you hate it when I’m late but the shoot ran over a bit_

_And Niko tried to pull a move on me_

_I guess I flirted with him a bit too much :/_

_learned my lesson there! The uber driver almost cancelled my ride_

_I’ll be there in fifteen?_

_My door code’s 25xx12_

_You can let yourself in_

_Give Makka a big hug for me!_

He sat in the backseat, a little anxious, while the driver twiddled his fingers over the steering wheel. Early evening traffic, the bane of his current existence. 

Checking with the driver made him almost want to run out the door and try his luck with the metro. Another quick text to Yuuri— _make that 40 minutes_. _I’m really sorry, you can get started first if you’re hungry D:_

He waited impatiently for the next few minutes. Scrolling through Instagram distracted him the teensiest bit, until a banner popped up with _Yuuri \:D/_ at the top of his screen. 

_Ok._

Viktor’s throat tightened. His leg began to bounce from the nerves. 

Not even a single emoji? A period after so short a message? Funny how it stung. 

He spent the rest of the ride on tenterhooks, caught between sending another text apologising for his lateness and opening up other apps on his phone in a mad rush of trying to distract himself. It was difficult to focus with a text from Yuuri like that, so terse and prompt. His brain ran in circles, much as he tried to look outside and watch what other people were doing on the sidewalks and in their cars. 

Was he going a little crazy? Probably. 

He should have just said goodbye to Niko as soon as he could, instead of talking. Instead of talking about his programmes and the photo shoot. Instead of letting the other man kiss him and touch him and rile him up and—

“We’re here, sir.” The driver shot him a look in the rearview mirror, as if to say _please get out and stop wasting my time_.

“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry.” He undid the seatbelt, grabbed his bag and almost tripped on his way out of the car. Luckily he caught himself at the last second, before what would have been a fall that might have ended either his season or cancelled any modelling contracts he had in February. 

“Ouch,” Viktor huffed, inspecting the grazes on his palms. 

The driver grumbled, before speeding off as soon as he had slammed the door closed. Viktor blinked in the car’s wake, gathering his nerves.

A quick look at his phone to check the time—ten minutes later than he’d said to Yuuri that he’d arrive. The _Ok._ taunted him from his inbox. No other messages. 

Viktor shot through the lobby, barely even greeting the doorman as he tipped his head. This evening, the lift was excruciatingly slow, every second making him tap his foot until the two women he shared the trip up with glanced at him several times with annoyance.

What was even trickier—they got off at different floors just before his own. Viktor was going to implode from all this before he even reached the door.

He ran down the hallway to his flat, his steps muffled against the carpeting. His fingers kept getting the code wrong. Until finally, the keypad responded with a satisfying _ting_ as the lock undid itself. 

How odd. The lights were on when he entered the apartment.

Wouldn’t Yuuri at least have opened the door for him if he was already inside? Or was he even more pissed off than Viktor suspected? 

He could smell the steam off the rice, and something else that seemed like either vegetables or hummus. Yet as Viktor put his shoes away in the rack next to the door, he didn’t hear anything that would have made it seem that there’s another person inside. Not even a grumble or the squeak of the chair.

_Scratch that. I heard Makkachin whine just now._

He found them in the kitchen, Yuuri with his head of inky black hair and his face hidden in the nest of his arms at the table. Little breaths putter out of him, as if he’s napping, with Makka nosing at his knee in soft whines.

So Makka had heard him, but hadn’t raced to the front door out of worry for the man currently fast asleep in what looked to be a very uncomfortable position for his neck at the kitchen table. 

If Yuuri was so deep under that he couldn’t hear someone at the door, that could only mean he was very, very tired. The takeout was on the table, where it’d been plated with great care, even arranged into neat little piles. What seemed like the fancy orange juice he liked to buy in bulk was in his glass, with just water in Yuuri’s.

Viktor sighed in relief. No wonder he’d sent such a short text. 

Makka walked over to greet him, searching for cuddles and scratches. “Thanks for keeping Yuuri company, Makka,” said Viktor, as she lay on her belly and he gave her a very thorough tummy rub. “And for being such a good model at the shoot today! Who’s a good girl? The best girl? You are! Yes, you are, Makka baby!”

Makka’s soft whines and Viktor’s coos at her reactions woke Yuuri up. The other man blinked a few times— _gosh, if only I could ask him to stay the night, then I could wake up to that_ , thought Viktor—before resettling his glasses on his face. His sweater sleeve left a deep pink imprint of the knit on his cheek.

“Oh,” Yuuri eked out, voice rough with sleep. “I didn’t know I… I’m sorry. I should have answered the door.” He cleared his throat, and then rubbed at his neck. A few pops echoed through the room as he cricked it this way and that. “Ouch. I’m going to be feeling that for the next few days.” 

He continued to blink the drowsiness out of his eyes, and dammit, how could he be so adorable in private and then so, so rough and tumble when demonstrating roles during class? “It’s alright. I should be the one apologizing, I was late because of something silly. Did you see my texts?”

Yuuri stifled a yawn. “It’s okay. The traffic, right? I haven’t read your texts yet. Let’s just eat. I know you’re tired.” Another yawn. “I am, too. I fed Makka already, by the way.” 

“Thanks. For that. And for the food.” 

There was a lag between that and Yuuri registering Viktor’s words as he seemed to wake to full consciousness, in which the other man’s expression moved from sleep to surprise to … shyness? “Oh. Uh. No problem. And well, Viktor…? You, er. You look …” He cleared his throat. The apples of his cheeks turned pink. “... gorgeous. Really pretty today. I wanted to say that.”

Oh. Oh? Heat rushed to his own cheeks, as Viktor searched for something to say. “Thanks.” He couldn’t help but smile, and bite his teeth into his bottom lip, worrying the wax of the lipstick. “Shall we … get started then?”

They made small talk as they dug in, the only sounds around them the clack of the silverware against the plates. It was all very delicious, and was exactly the kind of food that had Viktor calling out “Vkusno!” effusively. 

Then Yuuri took a quick glance at his phone after a text came in. “Sorry, I’ll be quick,” he apologised. Who could it be, Viktor wondered, that caused Yuuri’s eyebrows to quirk, his mouth to set into a thin line as he read through the messages?

But it didn’t seem right to ask anything, right now. The expression didn’t leave Yuuri’s face quickly. 

He tasted basil and tomato on his tongue as he observed the other man. The mark on his face was a funny contrast to the tightness of his features. There was no pinched furrow in the middle of his eyes, but rather, the ghost of one. The faint dark circles highlighted the fact that he hasn’t been sleeping well this week—he’d told Viktor as much yesterday that creating new choreography for the end of term showcase was driving him a little crazy.

But Viktor could only take so much of this odd silence. It was different from when they sat on opposite ends of a table at Dolcetto, busy with their books. Or when the conversation petered out naturally on their walks back, how the sounds of the city surrounded them as their hands occasionally bumped. 

Viktor laid down his fork. Being a friend meant making an effort sometimes—he’d read that in a book last week. 

“So. How was your day? I think you mostly know about mine.” Viktor even smiled, a peace offering. 

Yuuri shot him a quick look over his glasses and kept chewing, then took a swig of water to swallow it down. After a few moments, he spoke up. “A little difficult with the students. I don’t think they like my choreography that much.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Lilia called it ‘acceptable,’ remember?” Viktor made air quotes with his fingers. “That’s _high praise_ coming from her.”

“Technically difficult doesn’t always mean pretty or fun, though,” muttered Yuuri. “And to be honest, I think they still don’t like me much as a teacher. I just wish they’d say it to my face.”

“I distinctly recall one of them telling me your choreography was beautiful, but that you were a stamina monster!”

Yuuri’s expression scrunched in disbelief. He quickly hid his face behind his palms, the tips of his ears growing pink. “Seriously? You’re just exaggerating. Stop making fun of me.”

“I quote: Where does he get all this energy from, if I have to dance that second half I think I’ll die,” Viktor teased, leaning in. “And, my personal favorite, I think I’m gay again, I didn’t know you could do that on just one leg.”

Yuuri made a few grumbling noises from behind his hands. At least it was fun to watch and wait, until the other man began to peek out from between his fingers.

“I’m not going to make it any easier for them,” he said. The look in his eyes made a frisson of something thrilling—completely different from the situation with Niko just an hour ago—rush up Viktor’s spine. “They asked me for something to show off with, and they have what it takes.”

“Just like you were with me?”

“That’s different! Your choreography was already demanding to begin with. And besides, you’re a friend.”

“I suppose… about that. I’m really sorry about just now. I should have been more considerate of the time.”

Yuuri waved a hand at him. “No. Don’t worry about it.” He shot Viktor a look—his eyes jumped between Viktor and his phone. “I’m more concerned about you, actually. You said… he made a move on you? Are you ok? Did he hurt you, or anything?” 

A beat passed. Viktor didn’t quite know how to reply to that. The same awkwardness that had plagued him when Yakov and Georgi had asked him those same questions, once upon a time, still stuck around now. 

Yuuri looked at him, waiting. Maybe that made things worse, because now this was incident number two or three or who was even counting, of Yuuri finding out about things in a way that made his sentences come out stretched and thin. 

But he wasn’t angry, not even a hint of it, when he asked: “Viktor. Do I need to beat him up?” 

Annoyance, Viktor could handle. Jealousy, exasperation, too. But he found it hard to deal with concern. He didn’t know what to do with it, because usually he could take care of himself, or paid someone else to deal with it who didn’t know all the messy parts of him so intimately.

“I’m ok,” said Viktor, choosing his words carefully. It was like walking on eggshells. “He didn’t do anything _that_ bad.”

“What do you mean with that?” 

He looked at his own fork as it swirled the rice on his plate, avoiding Yuuri’s eyes. “To be honest… I reciprocated his looks during the shoot. Then he…”

He wondered if Yuuri would let the moment pass if he stayed quiet long enough. That was how it went with Yakov sometimes—Viktor didn’t want to talk about something, and Yakov didn’t force him unless it had something to do with his career. Both stubborn dolts, according to Lilia, too much so for their own good.

Except for the thing with Danyl. That, Yakov had put his foot down on.

But Yuuri just waited for him to reply, patient and the look on his face not shifting. He lifted another mouthful of his food to his lips.

“Yuuri, uh. He just kissed me? That’s all it was. I think.”

Yuuri tilted his head, the utensil stopping on the way to his mouth. He set it down. 

“That’s not all he did, wasn’t it,” Yuuri posited. His tone remained neutral, but the way he held his fork said otherwise.

“You could say that?” Viktor said, tapping a finger against his mouth. Maybe if he skirted around it enough then Yuuri would drop it, because he didn’t want to talk about it when they could be talking about other things that didn’t make Viktor feel like he wanted to take a long, hot shower and scrub his skin off. “Well, yeah, he was quite forward, for sure.”

“I don’t know how things quite work here, but could you report him—”

“Yuuri! No, it’s not that at all,” said Viktor, emphasizing the _no_ with his hands. “Besides, I kissed him back because I thought that was all there was to it. I didn’t expect him to put his hands on other places.”

Yuuri’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets. “What,” he grit out.

“I flirted with him during the shoot a bit, I guess I should have expected it—”

“Viktor.” Yuuri bit out. “Did he touch you inappropriately. Did he hurt you. Did you want that sort of thing to happen at all. At all! If the answer’s no, that’s clear sexual assault. And he’s—” Yuuri put a palm on his face. That gesture took the fight out of Viktor, all at once. “—much older, isn’t he? My age?”

Where was this all coming from? It wasn’t like Viktor hadn’t appreciated the attention, fine, so perhaps he should explain that to Yuuri. Though to be frank all his own wires were crossed and he was so tired.

Couldn’t he just go over this in the morning? The words came out of him in a rush, unthinking, meant to placate but with every bit he said—Yuuri’s eyebrows raised higher and higher.

“Yes. I mean, no. Oh gosh, no, I mean yes. Yes, he’s about your age, and yes, it was nice! Just the kissing and a bit of touching! I was tired and it felt nice! But he wanted to do other things, and I didn’t want to, so I pushed him away and ran out the door because I had already made plans with you and that was more important!”

The knife in Yuuri’s hand glinted ominously. “I see,” the other man said, expression unreadable. His grip on his knife was so tight it was turning the skin around his knuckles white. 

“I see,” Yuuri repeated. His Adam’s apple bobbed slightly above the neck of his sweater. “If you… say so.”

Moments passed. Then Yuuri took a deep breath, and laid the knife down on his plate. It made a loud clunk in the air of the kitchen. 

“I’m … sorry for pushing.” Yuuri apologised. “It must be the lack of sleep, I’m snapping even at you. Please don’t take this the wrong way. If there’s anyone I’m pissed off at … ” He glanced to the side. “It’s this Niko. Not you.” 

Viktor tried to pull his features together into a smile, meant to comfort, to mollify and calm. The most he could manage was a grimace, which he hoped wasn’t so bad. “It’s fine.” He put a hand to his braid, fiddling with the plait. “I handled him already. But thank you for worrying about me.” 

Wanting to lighten the mood, Viktor added—“You’re right though, he did look like that Tangled guy up close.”

Yuuri just snorted, turning incredulous. But his laughs faded, and he grew sombre again, asking—“are you really ok? He didn’t hurt you, do anything that made you feel … violated?”

That was hard to answer. Did Viktor feel violated? Sure, he felt off. Mostly, he felt tired and sleepy and well-fed, and he didn’t want to talk about it anymore tonight. There was no energy left in him to hash things out with Yuuri, and so he turned to a tried-and-tested method: deflection through body language. 

“To be honest, I think he was more shocked that I said no to him,” Viktor chuckled, twirling the end of his braid around his finger. He blew the strands away in a casual fashion, unthinking, adding a grin for good measure. 

Yuuri followed the motion of his hands with his gaze. “You don’t have to laugh it off if it really bothered you, you know? I’ve noticed you do that.”

Viktor froze. 

Where was this coming from? Hadn’t he just said it wasn’t a big deal? 

What had given him away?

“Your eyes get this weird look when you’re trying to shrug something off,” Yuuri pointed out. “Like you’re trying to pinch them into being happy but it’s not working. But, ah—” he sighed “—I won’t bother you about it anymore. Not tonight. You look like you’re about to… Nevermind.”

Yuuri shifted in his seat, picking up a fork and stabbing lightly at the last falafel ball on his plate. “It’s just something I noticed after Skate Canada. You said you were satisfied with the silver medal in some of your interviews, but then your eyes did that thing. And after one reporter asked you that stupid question after the short programme in France—” He stopped talking to take a bite out of his falafel, chewing thoughtfully. 

The silence grew, interspersed with the sounds of Makka playing with her chew toys. Cars whizzed past outside. 

Viktor felt distinctly uncomfortable, almost a little itchy and overheated what with his sweater and the heating and Yuuri’s pointed observations. Swallowing the lump in his throat with a gulp of orange juice helped a little. Removing his outermost sweater, forgotten in the hurry to get to the food helped a bit too, despite the static frizzing up his hair. He was left with his thermals, a round collar that dipped at the junction between neck and shoulder.

It took a few moments for him to recognise the direction of Yuuri’s stare. His neck— _something_ was on his neck. He put a hand on it, trying to keep it out of sight, too late to keep it out of mind. Dammit, Niko had been handsier than he’d expected alright.

“I want to ask, but … you know what? Nevermind.” Yuuri muttered. He grabbed at his glass sharply, before getting up to grab some more water from the sink. And cursed, or so it seemed, for good measure, although Viktor couldn’t quite recognise the language they were said in.

Viktor felt his cheeks warm, with every blink of his eyes and clink from the sink. Yuuri’s questions, his quick-change reactions—was the lack of sleep affecting him this badly? Maybe he should shoo him off back to his apartment right after this. It was just 8, but they were both exhausted. And how embarrassing was it to be caught with a hickey on his neck, again! Like he was still a teenager who couldn’t keep himself in control. 

Then there was Yuuri, getting snappish when usually he’d just blink and move on at facts, anything sexual, that stumped him unless it was for a role.

It wasn’t as if Yuuri didn’t know he slept around either, or thought he was a prude. He’d seen him with Ilya, after all. They were both young, healthy men with sizable libidos, and it wasn’t like Yuuri had room to talk, after that thing with Mitya.

But his reactions all evening—they were woven together with something else, something Viktor couldn’t quite place, something that made him push a little more than usual and stare at a hickey when otherwise he would have just nodded at the knowledge that Viktor had been necking with someone else recently.

What… had changed? Something had shifted between—well, before he’d left for France and today. 

“Viktor.” 

He jolted in his seat, breaking away from his train of thought. “Ah, yeah. What’s up?” Yuuri had taken his seat again at the table.

“I think I’m going to call it a night after helping with the dishes,” he said. “I’m not thinking straight anymore. Probably need more sleep.”

“Oh. Oh! Yes, that’s true.” Even if he’d expected it, Viktor faltered. As much as he didn’t want to give the Niko thing any more attention than it was worth, which wasn’t much, Yuuri was clearly bothered by it. But he also didn’t want to let Yuuri go back with the strange tension still between them. What was this even? Their first falling out as friends? Did friends get friends dinner then act all weird about hearing about another friend’s sex life? Or the failed attempts thereof?

Too much thinking. Too many questions. He just didn’t want to let things pass without trying to fix it first. What if Yuuri thought he was too much of a mess to be around when he woke up in the morning?

“You could stay overnight? I have a spare room. We could talk a bit more.”

Yuuri blinked at him. “Viktor, is something wrong?”

“Look, I … don’t want to talk about Niko, all that stuff. But I also don’t want to be alone right now? And I’ll do the dishes if you stay over. Please?”

The other man looked dubious at the idea. “Not that I wouldn’t want to just fall into bed right now, but I think sleeping in a new place might keep me awake rather than fall asleep.” 

“Oh. I see…” Viktor trailed off. He couldn’t really argue with that.

Yuuri clicked his tongue, thinking. “I can stay a bit longer and keep you company. Maybe enough for an FMA episode? Would that be enough?” 

“Yes! Let me get the dishes started. Are you done with that?” 

The dishwasher ran in the background, as they settled into the sofa, the opening strains of the theme song playing. Viktor followed along as the episode introduced the Elric Brothers’ teacher and her husband, more than aware of Yuuri’s presence next to him—he shifted every few minutes or so, trying to get comfortable, until the Elric brothers were unceremoniously deposited on Yock Island … and began to suffer hunger and hallucinations.

Then they hunt the rabbits. Viktor leaned into Yuuri, never good with the bloody bits of shows even if they were animated and cartoon-ish.

“Tell me they don’t show the rabbit bodies!” fretted Viktor, as he hid his face in Yuuri’s shoulder. He clung to the other man’s arm for good measure, pressing against it with his chest. 

Yuuri froze at the first snuggling touch. A curse under his breath, before something less like a deer in the headlights into his face and he chuckled, put a placating hand on Viktor’s forearm. Yuuri’s fingers settled into a rhythm as they stroked over the sleeve of his sweater, always light and gentle.

The warmth of his hand bled through the fabric. That and being awake since 4am, the food, the temperature of the living room, the comfort of his perch clinging to Yuuri—sleep came easily.

So did the dreams, the same amorphous cloudy images from just a few days ago. Their edges sharpened and their concepts made more sense: time spent with someone who loved him. A boyfriend, a partner, who did the chores with him and went for walks in the park with Makka, who came to his competitions and cheered him on from the stands, who massaged his feet after evening stretches and warm showers together.

No matter if Makka seemed to float on air or that there were two of her, one tinier and just as energetic, or if there didn’t seem to be any sense to how places changed and no one else ever seemed to be around, not even Yakov or Lilia or the rest of their students. 

Or how the man’s face, the man’s body, felt very familiar. 

Almost like Yuuri’s. The same strength in the arms that held him from falling into the floor, as he lay atop this dream-partner, settled on the blue couch in his living room. The same firm chest underneath his ear, and hardness of torso right against his own minus those fat rolls from last month’s altercation with Mitya. Viktor missed those. 

The same warmth. 

Dreams often didn’t include sounds, or other sensations aside from images, yet in this dream there were the faint notes of a song hanging in the air, the smell of cheap detergent against his nose. All so familiar.

It felt all too good to be true, then, when he sat up in this dream and realised that it was, in fact, Yuuri he had fallen asleep on. The other man’s legs, thick thighs and powerful calves, kept Viktor in place from rolling off the couch, and his arms hung heavy. The circles under his eyes, the spot where he’d missed a few hairs when shaving—who knew dreams could retain such details? 

There was one thing missing to make this all perfect, before Viktor woke up. All he wanted was a kiss, before the dream faded and he forgot how it made him feel, safe and loved in ways he didn’t in the real world. Before it went back to him alone in his apartment, pining after his best friend with only his dog, his books and his phone for company.

Unthinking and fond, he crawled up on his front and leaned forward.

The skin under his lips was warm, smooth. Yuuri must have shaved just today. It’s a quick peck, too fast to be anything but chaste. 

Yuuri didn’t stir. His breathing stayed level and even, although his eyeglasses were askew. His fingers twitched at the urge to fix them,w but it’s all a dream, wasn’t it? It wouldn’t matter when he woke up.

Viktor tried again, this time on the mouth. Happiness bubbled up inside him at the contact, thinking of how nice this dream was, to end in a kiss with his favorite person. Yuuri’s lips felt soft, a little chapped, and he registered the thought to gift Yuuri chapstick the next time he saw him. He pressed in more, moving his mouth, tasting the remnants of dinner on Yuuri’s lips, enjoying the sweet pressure of Yuuri’s mouth moving beneath his, about to ask for entry with his tongue, before realising—

Yuuri shifted. Yuuri was kissing back. His eyelids fluttered, on the brink of waking up.

Viktor scooted back, so fast and violent that he rolled off the couch, landed with his palms on the floor, and almost took Yuuri’s legs with him.

“Oof,” Viktor muttered, feeling the sting in his hands. “Ouch ouch ouch.”

“Vik—Viktor?” Yuuri sat up slowly, realigning his spectacles. He blinked the sleep away, moving one leg out of the tangle. “Shit, what happened—Are you okay?”

“I am!” Viktor chirped, feeling embarrassed on the inside. “Just had a really go—strange dream. Haha. Yeah, and then I rolled off the couch.”

“Your hair.” Yuuri gestured weakly, the blush on his face building to a bright red. Did he know? Did he remember? “And your, uh. Makeup?” He’d noticed. “It’s all a mess now. Sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“My hair? Oh, don’t worry about it, I’m just wondering how I ended up falling asleep.”

“Yeah, “ Yuuri said, and cleared his throat. “About that. I had a strange dream too. It’s… maybe I should go home.” 

He laughed, an awkward sound that made Viktor’s stomach swoop and dip into that mildly terrifying space of wondering if they were talking about the same things. “I’m curious, though. What was the dream about?”

Oh. So he did remember.

In a braver, better world, Viktor would have probably said something about the dream-kiss just now, before the moment left them both and it got too difficult to actually bring it up. 

But now didn’t seem like the right time. Yuuri looked so out of it, so tired, and the blush on his face—was it worth it to confuse things between them heading into a series of stressful competitions for Viktor and Yuuri’s ongoing ups and downs with the Christmas showcase?

Maybe it was cowardice, the fear of ruining things as they were, the warnings from Georgi and Chris’ own little taunts, his own hesitation to risk Yuuri, and all the older man’s vehemence about consent and physical contact beyond the dance studios. The only recourse was to conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it show, or whatever that Disney movie Mila forced him to watch had harped on about.

So he didn’t mention the whole of it, but rather, a tiny half truth. “Well, there were a lot of flying Makkachins in it.” 

Yuuri smiled, though there was a hint of unease in how one corner of his mouth didn’t quite move up all the way. “More than one Makkachin? Sounds like a good dream.”

“Yeah,” Viktor agreed, looking away. His heart felt close to bursting, seeing something so close to his dreams. “Yeah. It was a good dream, now that you mention it.”

Clean up went quickly, and after repeated admonitions from Yuuri to not forgo his evening stretches—pshh, as if Viktor would, he was a professional figure skater—they were bidding goodbyes at the door. Yuuri gave Makka a few farewell scratches, before she ran off to her dog bed, and it was just the two of them, lingering half in and half out of the apartment.

“So I guess I’ll see you on Thursday? I can’t make it to Dolcetto tomorrow,” Yuuri apologised, “Yuuko needs my help with something, and my schedule’s packed till then.”

“Oh, ok.” Viktor said. He tapped a finger on the door knob, wondering if he should visibly express his disappointment, or if the neutral way he acknowledged the statement was enough. He still felt a little raw from the dreams in his impromptu nap. “Good night, then. Let me know how much I owe you for dinner.”

“Yeah, good night. You go get some rest.” Yuuri lifted his hand in a wave, but then, seeming to think better of it—he leaned in, lightning quick, to leave a peck, the same lightly chapped lips, on Viktor’s cheek. 

Viktor blinked. Then it was gone.

“Good night, good night!” Yuuri called out, walking away briskly, the tips of his ears pink and sticking out beyond his short hair. “Get some rest!”

Viktor stood still, not quite understanding what had just happened. 

The skin on his cheek where Yuuri’s lips had been tingled slightly, for all that Yuuri hadn’t really done much but lightly press his mouth to the corner of Viktor’s mouth. Much less than what he’d done, basically kissed Yuuri without permission in his sleep—did that count as assault? But Yuuri had kissed _back_ —and yet, it shook him more, this chaste touch of a mouth to his cheek.

_What the fuck._

He took a step back inside and let the door swing in on itself, his thoughts not quite stringing themselves into something coherent. Even the click of the lock didn’t wake him up from the bells and whistles going off in his head. 

_What the fuuuuuuck_.

His ass met the warm ground of the heated floors, as he slid down the door into a sit. Makka, concerned with the thud, came over and nosed at him, sniffing him for what was wrong. He opened his arms and hid his face in her fur. It smelled clean and fragrant from her appointment at the groomer’s today. 

_What was that?_

But he couldn’t stay seated at the door forever, although he’d very much like to remain there, processing the whole series of events from today. He couldn’t stop thinking about it even as he carried Makka over to her doggy bed and set about putting -infinitesimal details in order —things like the edge of a book peeking out of his shelf the wrong way, a pair of shoes that didn’t quite sit right in the shoe rack near the door, even his coats, which had already been brushed of lint. It was 9:30 by the time he felt a little more settled. Evening stretches helped calm him down a little, but they didn’t disperse the start of an itch under his skin, an urge to take himself in hand and rub one off.

And even then, when Viktor’s in the shower and scrubbing at himself and the places where Niko had touched him, he still kept thinking about it. Yuuri’s texts. Yuuri waiting for him, falling asleep at the kitchen table. Yuuri’s expressions. Yuuri’s little rants about the writing and plot in books, the way his bony fingers would make his gestures more meaningful. Yuuri’s body heat. Yuuri’s lips. 

Yuuri’s concern. Yuuri’s odd tone of voice as he’d petered off and stopped asking questions. 

If Viktor didn’t know any better, he’d think that Yuuri was actually … he pinched himself on the arm, to stop himself from thinking it. It stung as the water poured over it, his nails leaving a pink mark.

 _No, no no no, assuming makes an ass out of me more often than not_.

Yuuri didn’t seem to show the normal signs and signals that went into what Viktor read as attraction, but the blushes and the edge in his voice were shining headlights that Yuuri was feeling something, alright.

He kept thinking about it, that quirk of Yuuri’s mouth. Of course, his imagination took it a little differently, contorted the scene and turned things a little heated. 

Something stirred in him, as the water washed away the suds of his soap. 

Viktor let out slow breaths into the shower. _Really, libido? Now, of all times?_

 _He’s my friend_ , thought Viktor, as he watched the bubbles swirl into the drain. He placed a hand on the wall. _He doesn’t even seem to notice. Except today, because he was sleepy!_

_Why is this so hard?_

His body didn’t seem to agree with his brain, or perhaps had a very different definition of the word _friend_. As was the case when one was friends with Christophe Giacommetti, he supposed. 

But Yuuri—wonderful, beautiful Yuuri, who had muscular shoulders that strangely made the best pillows, and forearms that had gripped the knife so dangerously. Viktor couldn’t help himself, again. Even a slight graze up his thigh to rub at a bit of glitter leftover from the shoot was starting to make him antsy. 

It wouldn’t take that long, honestly. And if he didn’t take care of the problem now, he’d just toss and turn in bed until he had to take care of it later.

So that decided things. Fine. Just once.

Viktor brushed a loose wet strand of silver behind his ear. The water kept pouring, a warm stream bearing down on his shoulders that loosened his trapezius, his lats, his neck, the backs of his thighs.

A hand down his flank. A light pluck at his nipple that produced a sigh, unbidden, from the back of his throat.

He widened his stance in the shower and let himself loose, his train of thoughts centering in the grip of his hand. There were a multitude of personal memories to choose from; all men with their veiny firearms and lovely cocks and spiry pubic hair, all the ways he’d been pushed onto the bed, sometimes kicking and screaming, or had been taken on a table or somewhere less common with his nipples exposed to cold air and his ass getting pounded into tomorrow. 

Memories that left him weak in the knees when he recalled them. The Olympics presented such lovely options. Once, on a balcony—his toes had almost frozen off, although the orgasm had been very good and the man very kind afterwards.

But Yuuri wouldn’t leave his thoughts.

Yuuri and the way he stroked Viktor’s arm, the way he held him during their attempts at choreography, the huskiness of his voice as he’d woken from his nap, the boniness of fingers and how the joints dug into Viktor’s hips when they danced together, his smile when he came to a particularly good part in a book—they all refused to disappear. 

Another thought popped into his mind, on the tails of a memory of Yuuri removing his sweaters in slow motion in the studio: what if? 

What if Yuuri had stayed over? Responded to that dream-to-reality kiss from Viktor? Kissed him back, soft cloying presses of lips, just a little chapped from the cold and tasting of their dinner?

Yuuri would laugh into his mouth, and Viktor would swallow the sound whole by moving back in. 

The grip on his own cock tightened and loosened in turns, with every little wisp of an imagined touch of a kiss between him and Yuuri. The hand on the shower wall curled in on itself, his nails scraping lightly against the tile.

What if … Yuuri had adjusted their positions with his strong arms, pulling Viktor into his lap. Running hands down his sides, the heat of his hands burning through the thin cloth of Viktor’s shirt. 

“Ah, ah, Yuuri. Please. Touch me,” he’d cry out, and dream-Yuuri would just smile that lovely smile with the twinkle in his eyes, and start to inch his fingers under the hem of his thermals, enough that Viktor could feel the pads of them on his skin. Slow, long strokes up and down his sides, followed by soft grazes at his pectorals that turn into pinches of his nipples, the shirt raised such that his whole chest was bared. Warm breath ghosting on his skin.

Then dream Yuuri would swoop in for a kiss, asking permission with a tongue along the seam of Viktor’s mouth. 

Viktor would grant him that, happily. “Yuuri,” he gasped, and the thought of it all, pulsed through him, made his cock twitch in his hand.

He keened as he thought of how the pinch of one finger at a sensitive nipple would thrum through him, the sensation making him cry out into Yuuri’s welcome mouth and buck his hips against him. His jerks at his cock got faster, the water and the soap smoothening the glide of his palm against the velvety skin. 

Viktor thought of pushing Yuuri’s clothes up, feeling him too. Moving against him, feeling the bulge in his pants. Maybe unbuttoning his jeans, pulling at the zipper. Precum pearled at the tip, just out of the shower’s reach that it gathered there, rather than getting washed away.

 _“I want to feel you, Viktor,”_ dream-Yuuri would say, in husking raspy tones, pupils dilated. _“You can take it out. Rub me against you. Make both of us feel good.”_

And Viktor would, because he was curious, because he was obedient and he wanted to feel good, wanted Yuuri to feel good. The hand on his cock got faster—Yuuri’s hand taking him out of his jeans, instead of his own, with its calluses and hot palms, just a little smaller than his own.

He moaned as the pleasure built, soft sounds lost in the rush of falling water. The pleasurable coil in his groin began to build faster, his jerks becoming more violent.

The first feel of Yuuri’s cock against his, velvet against velvet. Was Yuuri’s thick, angry and red, a little shorter but the kind that would leave him sore and gaping the next morning? Or honeyed pink, a shade darker than the rest of his skin—skin Viktor had finally seen a few weeks back, before that thing with the … no, not thinking about that.

Was he cut? Viktor didn’t mind either way, thinking of how the precum would pearl deliciously at the tip, as they ground against one another, impatient. 

He was so close, so close he could almost taste the peak. Little hitched cries came from the back of his throat, breaking in pitch. The water kept beating down on his back. His toes curled, the skin starting to prune. 

Just a bit more. Just dream-Yuuri pulling him closer, holding their cocks together, his hand over Viktor’s. He’d smell a bit like sweat and a bit like outside, the nip of Piter’s winter inescapable. His hand would turn Viktor’s hair into a mess; his mouth would plunder Viktor’s, searching for something inside with his tongue.

“Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuu—!” Viktor cried, desperate.

He was so close, so fucking close—pulling back, watching Yuuri’s face as they both came, as Yuuri, mouth warm and wet, said a low ‘Vitya!’ 

As he spilled in their hands, as Viktor followed him over the edge, gasping—

“Yuuri! Yuuri, Yuuri, oh god, that’s so good, please, please, more, more—”

The wave of pleasure crashed over him, a slow wave in his cock that grew and grew until it spilled out of his hand, deep pulses that came with every breath. 

There seemed to be no end; he just kept spilling over the cup of his fist, the drops falling to the floor as they slid his skin.

He gasped; his body felt loose. Empty where he wanted to be filled. Perfectly used up. Better than he’d felt after an orgasm in a long fucking time.

The water kept running; it washed the traces away, white swirls mixing in the drain. The conditioner he’d put in his hair was starting to set, a little stiff to the touch. It took a little longer to wash out, but the motions of massaging his fingers through his scalp calmed him, a nice counterpoint to the bliss of an orgasm. It helped him focus on something other than the little pinpricks of guilt for thinking of Yuuri that way.

They were friends! 

Even if Viktor had an absurdly large—fine, exponentially visible—crush on him that even Chris and Georgi tutted at, and Mila just sighed in exasperation over, it wasn’t right for him to use Yuuri as spank bank material. Even if he did feel that ‘crush’ no longer cut it, that ‘love’ was starting to look more and more like reality.

Well, he just had. And now — well, what now?

Even if there was a teensy bit of guilt, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret anything—for all that he knew just what hid in Yuuri’s head and all the amazing little ideas he had for choreography and movement and just his own funny observations, the exterior of Yuuri was _absolute_ spank bank material. 

Handsome, adorable, funny, sweet. A little dangerous at times with the things he said offhand that made Viktor want to ask more questions about his life before he came to Piter, and that guttural rasp of his voice when he was annoyed.

The exact kind of person that made Viktor want to get on his knees and worship in person, with his mouth and hands and the rest of his body, almost choking on it. Whatever Yuuri wanted.

Maybe he dreamed about that when he went to sleep that night. The sheets were cool and the extended stay in the warm embrace of the shower had raised his body temperature enough that falling asleep was easy, as soon as he laid his head on the pillow. 

Maybe Viktor walked to the rink the next morning running scenarios in his head about how to face Yuuri and look him eye to eye come Thursday.

Maybe Viktor touched himself again on Tuesday when books couldn’t distract him enough, this time with the help of pink silicone aiding his imagination.

 _Fuck_. The second time around, it just drove home how the syllables of Yuuri’s name were perfect for gasping.

But there wasn’t much space to hedge or to be embarrassed—the peck on the cheek? Yuuri did it again, so quickly before the others could see, when they met on Thursday after Viktor picked him for dinner from pole class. The same building lobby, the same sidewalk he’d kicked a stone into, the same landscape he’d seen Yuuko and Yuuri walk off into months ago.

“Oh!” Viktor squeaked. “That’s new.” He couldn’t help but put a palm to the skin, smiling all the while. Yuuri just turned a steaming red and hid his face in his scarf. 

“I mean—you’re ok with it, right? Oh shit, I should have asked permission—“

“No, no it’s fine!” Viktor waved his apologies away. “Took you long enough to finally pick up _faire la bise_ from Lilia _,”_ he giggled. Although he didn’t dare mention the part where the cheek kiss wasn’t supposed to touch actual skin. That would just be shooting himself in the foot, wouldn’t it?

“When in Rome—or Russia, do as the terrifying Prima Assolutas do,” Yuuri quipped, doe eyes shining from behind his spectacles. “I met a few of them the last two days—Madame Baranovskaya’s friends. I suppose I should….”

“Get used to it?”

“Yeah. Sort of. You don’t mind?”

Viktor just smiled at him. His heart wouldn’t stop leaping in his chest, rolling over in somersaults, making him do things like looping an arm through Yuuri’s, snuggling closer than two just-friends would. 

“Let’s go? What do you want for dinner?”

They didn’t quite bring it up again. In fact, they talked about everything and nothing as they walked in the cold towards Pioneerskaya, except for the things that hung around like elephants or very obnoxious questions, waiting to be answered. 

Except that this time, Viktor walked off with Yuuri in tow, the winter winds rolling in from the Neva blowing colder than the breezes of summer nights, feeling happier than all those months ago had ever predicted.

  


* * *

  


Ivan and Marya came back with more than just silver medals from Finlandia; a virus tagged along and spread its terrible claws over Yubileynyy, spreading from the receptionist to the cleaning staff to Antonia the nutritionist to Georgi to Yakov to finally, Viktor. Even his good looks couldn’t save him; he honestly looked unphotogenic with a splotchy red nose, having to sneeze every few minutes or so into a tissue. 

Yuuri said as much in reply to his selfie, and he pouted and grumbled as best he could over text.

Worse was that Piter only grew colder. Viktor had a car, yes, bought with the Chanel money from last year, but he’d avoided using it in lieu of walking (or jogging, in the cold, to stay warm) in the mornings with Yuuri, when the city was quiet and very few people were awake. There was a stillness and crystalline quality to the streets of Piter that he’d not been able to appreciate again till he had someone huffing and puffing in the freezing temperatures beside him. 

It added a new dimension to things. They didn’t always talk, and it was nice to be quiet next to someone without feeling the need to fill the silence. And when Viktor realised that—well, his feelings bloomed further. Practically multiplied like mushrooms. 

But there wasn’t really time nor space in his head to, well, plan anything more—not with the Cup of Russia and the Grand Prix Final practically beating at his door in two weeks! Maybe after he’d won gold? Maybe after Nationals? 

It wasn’t like Yuuri seemed to have time to think about the tension blooming under his very nose either, anyway.

Yuuri’s teeth would chatter whenever wind blew by, giving Viktor an excuse to hold onto his arm and cling to him, something about ‘sharing body heat through the clothes.’ Sometimes they’d race each other to the stoplight, unable to withstand the slow pace of their walk in subzero temperatures, unless the winds made it difficult. 

Yuuri wore a mask to keep his nose from falling off, and Viktor was treated multiple times to the sight of doe eyes and thick eyelashes that blinked at him when they met in the mornings. Occasionally, Viktor crowed about his Russian blood until he and Yuuri parted ways, then made a beeline for the rink where at least the lobby was more welcoming than the frigid temperatures outside.

Now, he had to give all that up the last few days for the joys of modern heating, because his head cold had gone from bearable to bad to worse, and the Final was just one week away. A week away till his fate was decided for the season, if he was truly worth state money. He could feel the ticking of the clock, every second, every time he flubbed a jump and the world spun and he crashed into the ice and his palms stung even through the gloves. Yakov would have yelled at him for being so sloppy … but Yakov was suffering through the cold, too—with a sore throat to boot—and so it was limited to hoarse muttered sentences. Ivan and Marya have already been banned for two days from the rink for bringing this pestilence upon everyone.

“You never mentioned the car,” said Yuuri as they met in the lobby. Yakov had put his foot down the other day; he was to drive or be driven to the rink on threat of power pulls. As they headed down to the lobby and walked over to it—“Or that it’s so.... pink.”

Viktor sneezed into his tissue, then sniffed out, “It matched my skin tone, and the car company gave me a good deal for a post on my Instagram.” Another sneeze, the force of this one making Yuuri take a step back.

“Are you sure you’re ok to drive?” Asked Yuuri. He cocked one eyebrow, incredulous with just his eyes. “We could always get an Uber.”

“And inhale more germs in my delicate state? I’ll manage,” sniffled Viktor. He’d done this before, even a little hungover. What was one head cold? 

“Don’t worry. You’ll get there in one piece.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened comically. “Uh. Ok?”

That seemed to sum up the rest of the trip to Vaganova, the first stop. The emptiness of the streets meant that Yuuri wasn’t subjected to Viktor yelling at someone who cut him in the lanes, with the nastiest curses that involved mothers and objects and penises in orifices. There wasn’t even any time to put on the radio—they reached the academy in ten minutes and Yuuri was waving goodbye and walking up the steps before Viktor could register what he needed to do next.

Driving to Yubileynyy was uneventful, thankfully. He even found a good spot to park. The heating in the lobby and the reception helped ward away some of the brain fog. Skating on fresh ice helped clear it away even more, as he got started with his warm up to an old pop song he was seriously considering as fodder for the ice shows next summer. Maybe after he finished changing his exhibition skate to Lovefool, because seriously—he felt silly and stupid after that kiss, touched his fingers to his lips when he remembered it to the point that he lied to Yakov and said it was part of the choreography. Also, cowardly because he’d backtracked and denied it. 

Yuuri had not brought it up since then, since a week ago. 

But as the morning light began to stream through the windows and his hour with Yakov came closer, the head cold grew with a vengeance. Not even a heated interior could help apparently. And when Viktor almost puked into the boards after one run through of his free skate, Yakov took one look at him and called Georgi over.

“Go home, Vitya,” he said, with still a hint of the sore throat. “Gosha, make sure he gets home safe.” Georgi looked over at Viktor, who was dry heaving while holding on to the boards for dear life, and shook his head in exasperation.

There wasn’t much to it; Gosha drove him home, sniffling and red nosed and dizzy in shotgun after a quick visit to the pharmacy down the block and one of the longest fifteen minutes in his life, waiting for Antonia to hand him a container of chicken soup and bland vegetables and protein to tide him over till tomorrow. 

He texted Yuuri as they stopped at an intersection.

_I was going to offer to pick you up so that we could grab dinner_

_but Yakov made me go home for the day_

_I almost puked onto the ice_ 🤮 ❄️

“Sucks that you and I would fall sick just before the Final,” said Georgi as he changed gears. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you at Nationals or at the Cup just because you’ve got a cold though.” 

Viktor smiled at him weakly, firing back, “I wouldn’t expect any less, Zhora.”

A reply came back as he walked through the front door and collapsed onto the couch, Georgi already having headed back to the rink. 

_Oh noooo do you have medicine?_

_Food? Is it just the head cold_

_or do you have phlegm too?_

_I’m ok mom,_ he texted with one hand, the other holding a tissue to his nose until he could sneeze the snot out over the sink. He popped a bit of the cough syrup and a pill that would hopefully knock him out in about ten minutes.

_A bit of phlegm_

_mostly a headache and a snotty nose_

_i’m just gonna get some sleep._

_Do you want me to come over and check on you?_

Another wave of nausea hit him as soon as he’s done drinking a glass of water. Viktor lay on the couch, Makkachin coming over to check on him, eventually hopping her full weight to lie on him. The body heat was nice, but it turned him drowsy as the medicine started to kick in.

_yea pls_

His eyes felt heavy. Another text from Yuuri, although his eyes were starting to burn— _I’ll check on you when I get back, ok?_

He’s not really sure if he replied back at all. What he even types. All he knew was he woke up to the creeping edge of late afternoon and a darkening sky, the winter sunlight come and gone. The windows casted bright patches onto the wall, diluted by the soft light of the lamp near the TV. There’s a blanket on him, smelling of his lavender detergent, a comfort among the sleepiness that drugs his brain. Makka’s snoring on top of his legs. 

He heard little clicking and pinging sounds in the distance, and began to open his eyes. A head of inky black hair, near his feet at the end of the sofa. It’s Yuuri, soft and determined in his seat with a face mask on, the light of his handheld console reflected in his glasses.

Viktor shifted himself to sit up, a little woozy from the motion but managing it anyway. Yuuri finally noticed as he coughed once, twice and came closer with a glass of water and a towel ready from the side table. 

“Thanks,” he coughed. The insides of his throat have never felt so scratched and irritated. His nostrils still feel icky; the medicine’s come and gone and the snot’s dried up, but his whole body aches. 

More sleep would help, but there’s the curious question of Yuuri to figure out even through the sleep haze. “Did I ever text you back?” Viktor asked in a small voice. He could feel the static collected in his hair. It’s a mess from sleeping on the couch.

“A bunch of gibberish,” tutted Yuuri behind his surgical mask. “Of course I got worried. You’re shit at taking care of yourself sometimes.”

“Hm. Like when?”

“You don’t finish eating, you don’t pay attention to stop lights, you work till you’re over exhausted, you skate through head colds…”

“It’s not like I could spread it to anyone else in the rink. Mila’s down with it too. Yura was yowling about it yesterday. I’m the last of it, so…” he coughed, and tried to joke, “it dies with me.”

Yuuri shook his head. “Also very stubborn, the whole lot of you. But you wouldn’t be at Yubileyniy if you weren’t, is it? Just drink up. I’ll leave once you’ve eaten.”

Viktor pouted. “And leave me all alone where I could possibly fall asleep on the floor? Such a terrible nurse!”

Yuuri laughed, the sound muffled behind his mask. “You’re clearly feeling better if you can complain like that. And I’m not your boyfriend, you know!”

Viktor froze. He had to look away. 

Yuuri’s laughter died down. “Viktor?”

“You act like it though,” said Viktor, slowly meeting the other man’s gaze. The drowsiness killed his filters, and it was the truth, wasn’t it? Yuuri was so sweet to him even when he didn’t need to be. In every way except the one Viktor wanted most. “Like you’re my boyfriend. Sometimes.”

He cradled the glass of water in his palms, letting the admission slip through his lips as the water sloshed at the bottom. 

“I kind of … like it. I wish…”

As soon as he’d said it, the recognition of what he’d just meant caught up with Viktor’s sleepy brain. Hiding behind a curtain of silvery hair helped decrease his embarrassment a bit, and his thoughts took their time to settle like silt. 

But not by much. Yuuri said nothing for a few moments.. 

Then—a drawn-out sigh. 

“Don’t get used to it. I might not even be here next year,” Yuuri muttered.

Not here next year? What! Did he hear that right?

There was something off in the way Yuuri considered him, a degree of incredulousness mixed with something else Viktor couldn’t put a finger on. “Shouldn’t you be beating off admirers with a stick for that position, though? I’ve been pulling double duty here.” He shrugged, hands empty. The sound came out muffled through his surgical mask. “I didn’t even apply for it.”

“Here and there.” Viktor coughed. The phlegm in his throat was returning in full force, and it made it hard to talk. 

“And have there been any takers? Anyone I should vet?” He joked.

Viktor shook his head. “No one who knows me as well as you do. Or who cares to get that far, I think.” He coughed again, the sensation hurting his throat.

Yuuri tilted his head, something strange in his gaze. The weight of it made Viktor drink slowly, before replying.

“Or who wants to get to know me beyond … a quick fuck. A few photos they can use to get things in return. That’s why…. friends who’re open to that are nice. At least they know me. They’re not after anything but a good time for the both of us. Like … Chris. Like … maybe, you?”

The other man’s posture stiffened.

Viktor sniffled and a little snot bled out of his nostril. Disgusting! Everything felt a little bit too much, and he wasn’t even sure what he was saying anymore. “Anyway. What am I even saying! I’m tired. I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

Where was the medicine? His throat felt terrible again. He got up, careful not to dislodge Makka’s place on the end of the couch, as he pushed the blanket away. His legs felt unsteady, wobbly. Yuuri shadowed him until he plopped his butt down on the seat, exhausted again. Every time he moved his head, it hurt.

Yuuri didn’t say much the whole time.

He helped Viktor heat up the soup and then set up the cutlery, observing him all the while. Waiting for points where he needed help, or if he coughed a bit too hard and needed more water. Texting on his phone sometimes, quick pings that made Viktor wonder who he was talking to. But he had no energy to ask, and it took more than enough out of him to just make sure he finished the whole bowl.

Finally, his spoon scraped the bottom. He swallowed the last of it, washing it down with water and heaving an exhausted sigh. His eyes were watering, and now he just wanted to get some sleep. 

Yuuri eyed him a little warily, brown eyes quick and sharp over the medical mask. 

“Do you …” Yuuri waved a hand over the table. “I can help clear this up. You go get ready for bed?”

Viktor nodded. He wasn’t going to say no to anything that got him closer to sleep sooner rather than later. 

For all that he usually slept in the nude, the softest sweater and sweatpants he could find were heavenly in their heat and comfort. He stumbled and tripped, coming out of the shower, a wave of nausea overtaking him. The _clunk_ of his body onto the floor brought Yuuri running to the bedroom. 

Everything ached. His palms stung from where they’d hit the carpet, little burns on the base. 

“Viktor! Viktor?” Yuuri called out, stopping at the door frame. When he saw him, splayed out on the ground with his hair in a pool around his head, blinking slowly at the ceiling—“Oh. Viktor. Vitya.” 

He walked over, socked feet making soft taps against the floor. Huh. He’d called him Vitya, after so many attempts at getting Yuuri to be a bit more familiar with him. Things didn’t make any sense. Was he dreaming? His name sounded so nice in Yuuri’s mouth. He wanted to hear it again.

“Yuuri? You called me…”

“I’m going to lift you, okay?” Viktor nodded his head sleepily, before realising what he was agreeing to. Then it was one, two, three and up—up he went, cradled in a princess carry in Yuuri’s strong arms, the solidness of his chest against Viktor’s side. 

Would he ever get to see him shirtless, topless, feel the bare skin under his own fingers? A question for another day. It came and went, as his mind refocused on sleep, and on wiggling in Yuuri’s arms, searching for warmth.

The other man was gentle as he laid Viktor onto the bed. He immediately sprawled into it, seeking the space under the covers. His thoughts felt hazy and woozy—the pill he’d taken after his dinner was starting to take effect. 

“Yuuri?” he called out, reaching a hand for the other man, standing at his bedside. All his fingers caught were the edge of Yuuri’s sleeve, but he pulled anyway, feeling weak and small. 

Yuuri was too far away. Why wouldn’t he come closer? Fine, Viktor was full of germs, but having Yuuri around was so nice, it made everything better. So he said as much. “Thank you.”

Yuuri sighed as he finally edged closer, his eyes lighting up over the edge of the surgical mask. “Get some rest. I’ll see myself out after the dishes are done.” 

“Yuuriiii,” Viktor murmured into his pillow, refusing to let go of the other man’s sleeve. It felt cheap and ran like polyester under his fingers, a clear sign that Viktor needed to take him shopping once the Christmas sales started in earnest. “I know you say don’t get used to it, but when you take care of me like this … can’t you … stay? Please.”

The last thing he saw before closing his eyes was a hand coming over to caress his hair. He let go of the sleeve, settled his hand near his chest, curled up into a ball to keep in the warmth under the duvet. 

The hand running through his hair? How lovely it felt, the way the fingers lightly dragged on his scalp. 

He felt so safe. So sleepy…

Glass clinked against his lamp on the bedside table. Then the lights went out. 

“Go to sleep, Viktor.” 

The hand brushed hair away from his face. Viktor barely registered the press of lips against his forehead, quick and light, as he was being tucked in. 

Sleep came all too easily. The truth came easily.

_Yeah. I think I am in love with him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kamenny Island: http://www.saint-petersburg.com/islands/kamenny-ostrov/
> 
> Mario Testino is a fashion photographer whose Towel Series is exactly what you’d imagine:  
> \- instagram.com/p/BRVkr6og2hN/  
> \- https://www.instagram.com/p/BQYCtjgBGn-/
> 
> Though the original inspirations were actually Hannah Kleit, Elsa Hosk, Maggie Maurer:  
> \- https://www.instagram.com/p/B93E3GRBmy2/  
> \- https://www.instagram.com/p/B_AZaNKpxVa/  
> \- https://www.instagram.com/p/CBnHNGKFpzq/  
> \- https://www.instagram.com/p/CCSoUVLDleU/
> 
> Annie Leibowitz also did this really cool photo of Whoopi Goldberg which I love:  
> https://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2012/09/annie-leibovitz-photography-exhibition-wexner
> 
> Some small moments I’d like to attribute to the right works:
> 
> The paisley bathrobes, and how Kamenny Island is one of the most expensive zip codes in Piter - https://archiveofourown.org/works/15618762/
> 
> The tension between Viktor and Georgi - Allekha’s Don’t Even Have to Buy a New Dress, which you probably should have read like yesterday???
> 
> The ‘Thank you?! It means a lot?!’ is a character beat I got from Practical Guide to the Olympics - https://archiveofourown.org/works/13857846
> 
> The nude beach affair - wholly inspired by Like Salt, Like Sun - https://archiveofourown.org/works/11477304
> 
> “God is fair.” - offhand comment from a classmate at my dance studio, about how luck and fortune are tempered by their opposites. She herself isn’t religious.
> 
> I’ve been toying with the idea of making a proper Spotify/YouTube playlist for this because a lot of the songs set the mood for how the scene gets written. Would that be something any of you would be interested in? 
> 
> As always, comments, questions, concerns encourage me to keep writing! They also provide inspiration, and when necessary, help me pick up things that can be improved upon or better researched.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has also been completely enabled by the YOI 18OI server (which is unfortunately currently closed to new members, hence why I took down the link). Thank you to all of you who have given me ideas and answered my questions about writing. You know who you are. Now to wait for Ice Adolescence, which we all hope comes out before the apocalypse.
> 
> See you next week.


End file.
